To Being an Us
by GettingBy
Summary: PreDuringPost RENT, starting back when Roger and Mark are in high school. A chronology of their friendship and eventual romance, throughout some of the highs and low points of their lives. Ultimately, their lives are always interconnected.
1. Days of Inspiration

Disclaimer: It's all Jonathon Larson's. No one could hope to measure up anyway.

OOC: Alright…so, I started writing this awhile ago and eventually began to ignore it in the hopes that it would become something I liked if I didn't pay attention to it. That failed, so now I'm rewriting it in a style that I like better, and which will most likely inspire me to actually keep the story going this time. I should have known that I wouldn't like it in first person. I just don't like first person. This time, instead of that, while each chapter will still alternate, either Markcentric or Rogercentric, it will be third person.

At any rate…here goes.

**Mark**

The first time Mark saw Roger, he knew that Roger was absolutely dangerous, and he really shouldn't get anywhere near him. It's not as if he was accustomed to hanging around crazy punk-rocker kids, anyway. But Maureen had gotten another crazy notion into her head, and Mark couldn't change her mind. For that matter, when could he _ever _change her mind?

"Marky, I _need _to have that guy play for me. He's in a _band_. A real one. With his guitar and my dancing, we could really have something going! Seriously, have you _heard _him play? It's a-maz-ing."

Mark shook his head at Maureen, trying to avoid looking at those wide eyes which were certain to be staring at him with all the pleading that she could muster stored up in them. He knew that look, and he knew when it would best serve him to avoid it, because he couldn't ever help but give in when Maureen started looking at him like that. It was bad enough that for most of middle school he'd had a phenomenal crush on her ever, back before he'd gotten to know her and realized that she was slightly damaged goods, but now she was also his best friend, and he was not the strongest guy when it came to girls either way. Besides, Maureen was used to getting her way, and Mark was certainly no exception.

"Maureen, don't call me Marky. I hate that. It makes me feel like a first grader again. Bad enough that my mom calls me that sometimes—and really, do you want to be like my mom?" He tried the only tactic that had ever even had a ghost of a chance of working—trying to avoid her plea altogether. Chancing a glance at her, he could tell that he'd made no headway whatsoever. Her eyebrows were still drawn together, and her bottom lip was pushed out just the right amount. Mark could already feel himself softening and getting ready to give in, to his disgust.

"Don't worry, your mom isn't half as sexy as me," she shot back, loudly, drawing the attention of a couple kids nearby. She knew they'd heard and shot them her brightest, most self-satisfied grin, and Mark smirked as they looked faintly offended.

Maureen tended to have that effect on people—slight offense, but drawn and interested all the same. Certainly she'd always had that effect on Mark, even after having known her for six years, and being friends with her for four of them. Sometimes it was frustrating to watch her, with the world on a leash, but most of the time he just accepted it. Maureen might have exuded self confidence, but she need approval as much as everyone else. Maybe more.

Her whining voice broke back into his thoughts, shattering them rudely. "Couldn't you just _please _tape us together? I guarantee, it'd be the most interesting thing for to come out of this dump of a school since—ever. We'd be a sensation." She flung her arms wide, nearly hitting a few people, and Mark could feel his face beginning to turn red. Being friends with Maureen tended to have its fair share of embarrassment. He rolled his eyes at her, wishing that she could have placed this conversation somewhere other than the halls before school.

A glance at the clock told Mark that he still had a solid five minutes before the bell was going to ring and he could escape to the safety of the back seat of his calculus class. There was no hope of salvation from that direction, unless he could out talk her, which was never likely.

"Let me get this straight. You expect to walk up to a guy you don't even know, who only moved here a month ago but has already made his way into the band circle of the school, and ask him if he'll write an original song and play it to help you protest the fact that they're taking soda machines out of our school?" She nodded, looking at him pleadingly with those big eyes again, and he knew that he was sunk, once again, and he was going to have to help her with her crazily concocted plan.

All the same, he hesitated long enough that Maureen stepped it up a notch, sidling closer and folding her arms onto Mark's shoulder, tilting her head against him. "It'll be fun, Mark. Maybe you'll make another friend."

Stung slightly, Mark pulled away and looked at her. In a way she was right. He was quiet and intelligent, traits that didn't particularly lend themselves to a great social life. Normally it didn't really bother him, because he had his camera as something to hide behind, but normally Maureen didn't point it out so blatantly.

She seemed to realize that she was overstepping an unspoken line even before he could say anything. "I'm sorry," she quickly said, trying to remedy her slip. Mark regarded her, and this time it was the sincerity of her expression rather than the plea that got to him.

"It's fine. Don't worry about it," he told her, just like always, because he couldn't stay mad at people. Particularly when those people included his best friend (who, as she'd pointed out, happened to be one of his only friends).

He thought back to the first time he'd seen him—Roger Davis. He had been wearing jeans that were tighter than some of Maureen's, and a fitted black shirt with some band name on it, though Mark couldn't have said which, now. Blond hair was spiked up, and his green eyes were rimmed lightly with eyeliner. He was late to the one class that they shared--their government class--and walked in carrying not only a backpack, but a battered guitar case. With a glare at the teacher that dared her to challenge anything, he'd slipped into his seat, across the class from Mark.

For some reason, Roger fascinated him, in a somewhat unsettling way. He had an air of confidence that was impossible to ignore, but that was subtly different from Maureen's version of self-assurance. Where Maureen had to beg the world for attention, Roger would have gotten it no matter what he did. All he had to do was lean back and bask in it.

It was completely the opposite of Mark, and that was what drew him the most. He knew that he was reacting just like everyone else did to Roger, and it occurred to him that Maureen may have been counting on that to convince him. Eyeing her, he tried to read into her motives and intentions, but her face was carefully blank, displaying nothing other than obvious hope.

As a ploy to buy time, he slid his camera out of its case and centered Maureen in the view-piece. The prospect of interacting with Roger was somewhat terrifying, and Mark wasn't sure if it was possible of not. Before him Maureen grinned, loving to be the center of attention.

"Close on Maureen, who's crazy enough to talk to a complete stranger, and has somehow gotten me to go along with it," Mark narrated with a sigh.

The bell rang, jarring his thoughts, and Maureen flung herself unabashedly at him, causing him to lift his camera clear of her tight hug. "Thanks again, baby!" she said enthusiastically, blowing a hugely fake kiss as she rushed off to class. Scenes like that had, at one time, embarrassed him to no end, but her vast quantity of energy and physical affection had become normal and even enjoyable over time.

Around him people were beginning to mill about, zipping up backpacks and gathering sweatshirts and notebooks into piles. For a moment, Mark let the crowd pour to either side of him, enjoying the feeling of invisibility that it afforded him. As he switched off his camera, finally turning to head for calculus, he muttered, "Close on Mark, who's about to have an incredibly long day."


	2. You'll See Boys

Disclaimer: It's all Jonathon Larson's. No one could hope to measure up anyway.

**Roger**

It wasn't as if Roger didn't know who Maureen Johnson was when she walked up to him for the first time during some lunch period. She was in a class or two with him, but even if she hadn't been—there were four years during which you just didn't attend Green Glen High without knowing who she was. She was that girl who had a lead in pretty much any drama production, and who would not get out of the school's historic oak tree when the city wanted to cut it down until they signed a contract agreeing to keep it in place.

This meant that when Maureen strutted up at lunch one day, all black leather boots and tight black jeans and one-too-many belts cinching an extra-long shirt, Roger already knew a bit about her, even though he'd never talked to her before. He was torn between amusement and disgust when he noticed a scrawny little blond guy half-hiding behind her—it looked to Roger as if he was obviously at her beck and call.

She didn't even have to open her mouth, and Roger already knew that whatever she was going to say wasn't going to make an already shitty day any better. After leaving his backpack on the bus in the morning and having to run two bus stops to get it, he'd been late to his first period class, earning himself a detention. Things had gone downhill from there, and now he was confronted with a drama queen looking particularly determined.

There was a feeling coiling in the pit of his gut that she was about to surpass all of the prior frustrations, all by herself.

"Roger Davis." She said it as a statement, not a question, and now he began to wonder what someone like Maureen wanted with him. Cocking one eyebrow, he retorted, "Maureen Johnson." She looked immensely pleased to find that Roger knew who she was, which really didn't surprise him, considering how much of an attention-seeker she was.

At his comment, she continued, "I was wondering if you might listen to a proposition of mine."

Flashing her his best smirk and winking at her lackey, he informed her, "I require dinner and attendance at one of my concerts first. Oh, and you have to provide protection."

This was the first time that, in his short time at the school, Roger had ever seen or heard of Maureen confronted with a situation that actually left her literally speechless, and he inwardly congratulated himself. He was aware of a muffled noise from behind the brunette, and his eyes flickered back to the kid that he'd marked as her "property." The thin boy had a hand over his mouth and was trying, and failing, not to start laughing. He managed to looked both horrified and greatly amused, the two emotions warring for control of his face.

That made Roger's smile grow into a shit-eating grin, but as soon as the other kid noticed that Roger's attention had turned to him his mouth snapped shut, and he resumed looking as if he wanted to sink into the ground.

After another moment, Maureen smiled with as much self-satisfaction as a cat eating a bird and told Roger, "Alright, great. We'll set the day for the evening after the protest I need you to help me with." He almost couldn't believe it, except that he'd heard a lot about the girl before. Still, she had an awful lot of gall to be able to stand there and, having never given him the time of day before, tell him that he was going to help her with some protest.

He was already starting to get tired of her, and he'd barely met her. Even beyond that—a protest? Roger may have adored attention, but some things were just taking it a step too far, and he was pretty sure whatever she wanted was going to fall into that category.

"Fuck that," he replied shortly, about to turn and walk away. After all, there was really no need to waste his time. Then he felt a hand on his sleeve and looked back down at Maureen's pouting face. A twist in his stomach told him that she was probably one of those girls who thought that everyone's sole goal in life was to do as she wanted.

"Please? I _need _a guitarist to help me protest the school district. They're taking out our soda machines." If there was one thing Roger couldn't stand, it was begging. He loved girls, but they had an inbred way of reducing themselves from decent humans to whoring infants when they started begging.

With his upper lip starting to curl, he jerked his arm from Maureen's grasp. "Why should your protest concern me? It's not like I have any kind of sway over anyone. I'm spending my senior year year, but it doesn't mean I care about the school," he shot back.

That blond kid behind her caught his eye again, and he vaguely thought he remembered seeing him in one of his after-lunch classes. The other kid looked mortified, and really wanting to be anywhere other than the lunchroom, where Maureen looked like she was getting herself worked up to cause a mild scene.

Consideringly, Roger ran a hand through his hair and felt vaguely sorry for the poor guy. All the same, it made him wonder why the blond bothered to keep hanging out with her. As soon as he noticed that Roger's gaze had fallen on him, he shrank back a little more, as if he thought Roger was going to yell at him or something. Instead, the guitarist just rolled his eyes at Maureen, his next caustic retort forestalled by the bell ringing.

Gratefully, he successfully slipped away from them this time, and back into the crowd. From somewhere back behind him, he could hear Maureen's high-pitched voice announce, "Come on, Marky," and a slightly lower one (who he presumed to be blond, glasses boy) reply, "Maureen, DON'T call me that!" before he was out of ear shot. His final thought was _Poor kid needs to learn to shut her up once in awhile._


	3. The Need to Express, to Communicate

Disclaimer: It's all Jonathon Larson's. No one could hope to measure up anyway.

**Mark**

As Mark had suspected, it was an incredibly long day. After Maureen made an absolute fool of herself when she went to talk to Roger at lunch he felt that by default, he looked pretty stupid also, just standing there. It was obvious that Roger was the only one that looked good through all of it, just glaring Maureen down and telling her off. Secretly, he wanted to congratulate Roger for making her look so incredibly put-out. 

By the time he made it into Government, his last class of the day, what he truly wanted was to avoid Roger and certainly not to find out that the teacher was changing their seats so that he was in the seat behind the amateur rock artist. As soon as they had slipped into their seats, Roger turned to look at Mark, eyes taking in his thick, black-framed glasses, striped shirt, and bitten nails which he quickly stuffed into his lap out of sight. That way Roger couldn't see him picking at his cuticles from nerves.

After a moment of what felt like inspection, Roger finally starting talking. "You're Mark, right?"

Mark nodded, thinking that it was a good thing his feet were braced against the front legs of his desk so that he wouldn't slide down any further in his chair. To his surprise, the other boy grinned, looking like the two of us were sharing some private joke that no one else knew about. "Your girlfriend Maureen is pretty out there, man," he said, eyebrows raised, and green eyes sparkling brightly.

Before he could stop himself, Mark blurted, "Maureen's not my girlfriend!" Even to his own ears, it sounded pretty unconvincing, despite the fact that it was the truth. His voice was too high, and the words came out too fast.

Roger's mouth turned up even more as he set an elbow on Mark's desk and propped his chin against the heel of one long-fingered hand. Mark nervously glanced over at the teacher, who was still going through the new seating chart and not paying any attention to everyone chatting around her. "Whatever, your friend, then," Roger amended carelessly, messing with the necklace that dropped about his throat with his free hand.

Mark nodded, trying to figure out what Roger wanted from him. It was no secret that guys in bands generally did their best to avoid contact with dorky little squirts like him, but here was Roger, chatting as though he didn't know about the social restriction that should have prevented him from doing so.

After another moment's awkward silence during which Roger just looked straight at Mark and Mark tried not to shrink under the unflinching gaze, he asked, "What part do you play in these little…protests…of hers?"

Swallowing and reaching down to the padded bag that rested on the floor next to his backpack, Mark hauled it up onto the desk and patted the side. "I film them for her," he replied, unzipping the bag enough that they could both see the camera that nestled inside of it. Immediately, he could tell that Roger looked interested.

"You're what, a filmmaker?" he asked, the honest curiosity putting Mark a little more at ease.

"Actually, yes. Amateur, but I'm working on it," he asserted with conviction, closing his camera bag again and setting it on the floor at his feet. Roger seemed to be considering something, so Mark kept quiet, watching as Roger put both hands onto the edge of his desk and started twirling the silver ring on his right middle finger. He seemed to Mark to be one of those people that always needed something to do with his hands.

A few seconds later they met eyes again, Roger still fiddling with his ring. "Okay, I'll write background music for Maureen for this protest of hers," he said off-handedly.

Mark's eyes felt like they were about to pop out of his head. He definitely hadn't expected anything like that, and he wasn't sure if he really liked the idea. Roger still intimidated him, especially with the guitarist's uncanny way of keeping unshifting eye contact whenever he was talking to someone.

Somehow, though, the fact that Roger was talking to him as if he was a normal person instead of acting like they were from utterly different social classes was putting Mark more at ease with him than he'd been previously, and he was able to answer, "Oh, um, okay. I guess I'll tell Maureen…she'll be thrilled."

Roger winked and replied, "That or she'll get pissed because her pleading didn't convince me, but you managed to without even trying."

Mark stared at him in shock and some confusion, trying to figure out if he had some kind of ulterior motive. Maybe the only reason he was doing this was to mess with Maureen, and possibly Mark also. Maybe not. Nodding in agreement and tracing a finger over some words long etched into the desk he muttered, "Yeah, she's rather used to getting her way."

Roger smirked, remarking, "I can tell. She must be an only child." Mark nodded again, rather absently, trying to figure out how best to exploit the fact that he'd gotten Maureen what she wanted when she couldn't do it herself, for the first time ever. The teacher's voice broke through his musings, calling the class to order, and Roger actually decided to listen, spinning back forwards in his seat.

About forty-five minutes into the lecture, Roger reached up to scratch the back of his head, and a crumbled piece of paper came to a bouncing halt in front of Mark. He eyed it warily, immediately feeling his face turn red as it tended to do when he knew that he was doing something that could get me into trouble. Still, he wasn't going to let Roger think that he was too afraid to do something as simple as opening his note, so, as quietly as possible, he smoothed the paper on top of his notes.

Roger's writing featured tall capitals and letters that were thin and close together. Mark thought that it fit well with his personality, somehow. Scrawled across the page were marks that even Mark, limited as his knowledge of music was, could tell were guitar tabs. At the end there was a short note as well.

_For Maureen's protest. _

After a moment's hesitation Mark scribbled back, _Wow, that was fast. How much time do you need to practice it? _

Unsure of what to do with the note, he folded it into a neat, sharp-cornered square and stuffed it through the triangular opening in the back of Roger's desk chair. The boy started slightly, then relaxed and pulled the paper free, reading over it. A few minutes later, it was crumpled into a ball again and dropped back in front of Mark again.

_It's really basic, or else I couldn't have written it without my guitar out. I really don't need to practice it much. It's pretty much a variation on something else of mine. _

Mark nodded to himself, realized Roger couldn't see it, and replied with a simple and unadorned, _okay,_ which he passed back through the seat. He wanted to add something else, another question or something, but there wasn't really anything else to say.

At the end of class he nit-pickingly organized all of his notes and clipped them away in his binder, shuffled through his books only to realize that he was going to need all of them for homework, and shouldered his backpack, coming face to face with Roger, who was, by all appearances, waiting for him. Blankly, he stood staring at Roger, waiting for some reason that he was still there.

I thought we'd go talk to the protester," he explained, with an obvious understanding of Mark's confusion. As they left the classroom, Mark looked enviously at Roger's nearly empty Jansport, slung carelessly over one shoulder, wishing that once in awhile he—well, his parents, realistically—could just not care enough to skip over doing homework for a day.

Once they were outside, Roger gestured for him to take the lead and they walked along, pretty much side by side. Anytime they passed groups of girls, Mark would watch their eyes slide over him and straight to Roger. It wasn't as if that was out of the ordinary; he was used to being overlooked, and it made sense that next to someone that girls seemed to regard as the epitome of sexiness, he would be utterly invisible.

Maureen was, as per usual, leaning against the tree just outside the gym. When her eyes locked onto Roger next to Mark, her eyes turned fiery, and to prevent whatever rude remark she had planned, Mark quickly said, "Hey Maureen, Roger would love to help you."

Well aware that he was stretching the truth just a tad, Mark willed Roger to not correct his statement. He knew damn well that Roger wouldn't have "loved" to do anything for Maureen, but keeping her happy seemed the best tactic.

It worked rather well, actually, because immediately her face lit up and she cooed, "Oh, that's so _sweet_ of you, Roger. When can—"

He cut her off, dryly stating, "Yeah, I decided that your protest might get a fellow artist's work looked at, and I've already got chords written."

The explanation was exactly what Mark had been hoping for. It felt great, to be tied to someone like Roger as a "fellow artist." It especially felt good when, for the second time in one day, Maureen was left completely speechless.


	4. Document Real Life

Disclaimer: It's all Jonathon Larson's. No one could hope to measure up anyway.

**Roger**

Roger decided that working with Mark and Maureen was somewhat similar to watching a soap opera. Their relationship went just like those stupid daytime television shows that his grandmother had watched while she was still alive and living with his family. He'd be playing his piece as Maureen started dancing, and suddenly everything would go haywire. 

"Why'd you stop filming?"

"Maureen, I told you, if you want a steady film, you have to stay within the set parameters! It's on a tripod, I can't just move it at your random whims."

"But Marky, I can't help it! Freedom of movement and freedom of expression! That's what this is all about!"

"Don't call me Marky. I hate that. And isn't it about soda machines?"

"You just don't get it, _Marky_. It's not just about _soda machines._ It's about not conforming to society! It's about being who we are!"

At this point, Mark just rolled his eyes and gestured for her to get back into position. Carefully, he unattached the camera from the tripod and set the stand off to one side. The three of them were in Maureen's garage, where the great majority of her homemade protests were filmed, and which was easily outfitted better than Roger's living room. There were about five rugs of all different shapes and sizes covering the floor, a rather plushy green sofa which the musician was sprawled across, two gray armchairs that were sadly in need of being re-stuffed, a blue bean-bag, a small refrigerator, a CD player, and an ancient TV.

Roger was really enjoying his unexpected escapade, actually. Maybe Mark was the one looking at the world through a camera lens, but that didn't mean that he didn't like observing people, in his own way. It was pretty obvious to him that Maureen was just Maureen, with nothing really hidden about her. She was the same girl in the cafeteria or with just Mark, not trying to cover up anything.

Mark was an entirely different story. He became a completely different person when he was taken out of the only context that Roger had ever seen him in before: school. Suddenly the shy kid turned into someone who wasn't afraid to correct Maureen and talk right back to her. Actually, Roger was beginning to think that Mark had kind-of forgotten that he was here at all. After all, he was being pretty inconspicuous, just lounging on the moss-green cushions, guitar in lap, playing on cue, and drinking the occasional soda. That gave Mark the freedom to not think about Roger's opinions about him.

Roger still wasn't entirely sure what had possessed him to agree to this. Hell, he couldn't figure out why Maureen even needed to include dancing in her protest, but it was obviously not something that one questioned. At least, it wasn't something to question if one wanted to avoid an hour long explanation about self expression. Being a musician, he had accepted a long time before that each person's self expression varies.

Watching them bicker back and forth, he was pretty glad that he had actually decided to come along. For once he was with people who weren't trying to be something that they weren't, and it was so comfortable to have someone outside of the band not idol-worshipping him. That had been fun…for awhile. It had gotten tiresome very quickly. A little smirk crept across his features as he thought about how nice it was to be hanging out with people who weren't really expecting anything out of him.

"What are you laughing at?" Maureen called to him, flouncing over and dropping down onto the couch. He looked up at her, giving her a real smile this time instead of the half one that he'd been sporting a moment before.

"Hmmm….I'm thinking that I could really use some ice cream right now." Out of the corner of my eye, he could see surprise register on Mark's face. _Yes Mark…rockers do eat ice cream_, he thought to himself, turning enough that his smile could encompass Mark as well. "What do ya guys think? Ice cream?"

Deftly, Maureen plucked his Fender from his hands, which he generally would have protested pretty harshly, but he was in a good mood and she set it down gently, so he shut his mouth before he ended up ruining the bright atmosphere that was filling the room. "Are you treating?" the girl asked mischievously, turning a pair of eyes on him that he was pretty sure could get half the world at her feet, asking to be allowed to pay for her.

With that thought in mind, he stood, only to bow sweepingly before both her and Mark. "Can a lowly musician like me deserve the honor of paying for people like you?" he asked, straightening and winking at Mark, who still looked shocked.

-----------------

By the end of the night, Roger was pretty sure that that was pretty much the best damn ice cream that he'd ever had.

They had started the whole filming process late, because Mark's parents had wanted him to have dinner with them, and they could all be out later than normal, because it was Friday. By the time Roger suggested ice cream and they had walked down to the closest shopping center because it seemed more interesting than driving, Baskin Robbins was long closed.

Instead, they wandered into the supermarket, which was open until midnight, at about 11:56, causing the cashiers still on duty to roll their eyes and give the three teenagers frustrated glares. Closing was announced three times before they'd managed to settle on buying a gallon of Cookies 'N Cream and a box of 24 plastic spoons, which they threw away all but three of. Once they'd left the supermarket staff to close up, they sat out in the empty parking lot devouring their prize.

"Don't you guys have a curfew?" Roger asked at one point, laughing at the look that the other two exchanged. "Ummm…yes. Mine's one, his is eleven," Maureen explained, continuing very matter-of-factly, "We're both quite accomplished at cutting curfew. Neither of our parents wait up anyway."

Roger nodded and replied, "Ah, I remember the days of curfew. My mom eventually gave up on that when she realized that the more limits she set, the more I'd want to get past them." After a slight pause, he glanced over at Mark, gesturing to the camera that was resting on the asphalt next to him. "So how'd you get into filming, Marky?"

Mark jumped as if the spoonful of ice cream that Roger was nonchalantly putting into his mouth had instead been introduced to the inside of Mark's shirt. Sputtering, he managed, "I—you—what did you just call me?"

With a grin reminiscent of the Cheshire Cat, Roger replied, "Well, since you obviously _loved _hearing that name from Maureen…besides, I think it's cute."

"See? Marky, I've been telling you for ages that it's cute."

Fighting something that looked suspiciously like a smile away from his face, Mark replied, "Fuck both of you."

"In the parking lot?" Roger arched an eyebrow at him and it was obvious even in the dark that Mark was blushing, but he laughed nonetheless. It was a real laugh, too, and it sounded good to Roger to hear him less reserved, especially since it wasn't just Mark and Maureen fighting over camera angles while the guitarist became part of the furniture anymore.

Mark picked up his camera, scooting back a little so he could capture both Maureen and Roger in the viewfinder. She grinned and waved, and Roger even gave a little wiggle of the fingers to appease him.

From behind his precious piece of equipment, Roger could hear Mark tell him, "I don't really think the events of tonight count as dinner and one of your concerts, and there certainly isn't protection." His boldness amazed Roger, coming from the kid that was scared to so much as talk to him about twelve hours before.

Once he set the camera back down, they all lapsed into silence for another few minutes. Someone would occasionally dip a spoon back into the ice cream, but other than that, it were still and quiet. Finally Roger broke the silence. "I was actually interested before. You know, in why you started filming."

He could tell that until he spoke again, everyone had forgotten that he'd asked at all. Even he had, for that matter. After another moment's silence, Mark shrugged, and in his voice Roger could tell that he wasn't telling quite the entire story. "I'm not sure. I liked messing around with cameras as a kid, because my parents used to tell me that I was 'documenting real life.' A friend of mine who moved away—Billy—his dad had a video camera, and I saw a couple of the homemade films. It looked like fun, and besides, I'd never liked pictures of myself, so I bought this one cheap from the dad right before they moved and he was talking about getting a new one."

"Cool," Roger told him. There wasn't all that much else to say, but it didn't really matter. They all just slipped back into that comfortable, companionable silence. Finally Maureen asked, "Either of you boys have a watch?"

Mark glanced down at his wrist and remarked, "Well, shit."

"It's that late?" Roger asked curiously and he nodded, looking slightly dejected.

"It's pushing 3:00," he informed them. "If my parents should happen to wake up and I'm not there…"

Since Roger knew that his mother wasn't the type to really worry if he was out late, he couldn't really empathize with Mark, but put on his best face of understanding and they stood up, leaving the melted remains of the ice cream sitting on the ground. Roger shoved the spoon into his pocket without really thinking about it, and they wandered slowly back to Maureen's garage. As they surveyed the mess, she finally told them, "Well, guess we'll have to finish the filming next week. We're going to be visiting relatives in the City all weekend."

--------------------

Roger and Mark nodded, waved, and headed out the door. With the way that the evening had gone, Roger really wasn't all that surprised to find himself looking forward to Monday, and getting to hang out with the two of them again. He offered Mark a ride home, which the smaller boy accepted gladly.

After a short set of directions, Roger found himself pulling into a gated community, and he let out a low whistle. "Nice place you've got here," he commented, trying to hide the slight tinge of jealousy in his voice. He wasn't used to friends with the kind of resources that Maureen and Mark obviously took for granted, if only because they'd never known anything else.

"Well…it's…thanks." It sounded to Roger as if perhaps a bit of Mark's self-consciousness had come back after leaving the safety of having Maureen as a buffer, so he didn't press the subject. Instead, he reached across Mark to unlock the door, and Mark thanked him for the ride before walked directly across his neatly manicured lawn and quietly opening his side door, disappearing into the darkened house.

As he drove home in silence, Roger was really glad that they hadn't finished the filming of the ridiculous protest yet.


	5. One Song

Disclaimer: It's all Jonathon Larson's. No one could hope to measure up anyway.

**Mark**

They didn't manage to finish recording Maureen's protest on Monday, either, because she decided that she wanted to make some costume adjustments, and Roger had to leave partway through to practice with his band. Tuesday Mark ran out of film and no one was motivated enough to go get more right then, and on Wednesday he was called home by his parents, who didn't think that being out after school every day was a good activity for their son.

By the time they finally got around to finishing filming, Mark had adjusted to the routine of Roger hanging around after Government so that the two of them could walk out to meet Maureen. Friday, the day after they'd finally finished, when Mark stood up to leave school, it was a moment before he realized that despite the fact that they had no real plans to go anywhere this time, Roger was still standing there waiting for him. Mark raised his eyebrows, Roger raised his in response, and they both gave little half-shrugs as they walked out of the classroom.

When they approached Maureen, she came running up and announced, "I have a date tonight, see you guys later!" An almost-squeal escaped her full lips as she waved brightly and hurried off.

Mark and Roger looked at one another. "So?" Mark asked, hoping that his association with Roger wasn't about to become a solely in-school one.

"So…ya wanna come over?" Roger replied, pulling on a strand of hair. His other hand dug into his pocket as he added, "You could spend the night, maybe."

"Yeah, sure, I just need to swing by home first and get clothes and stuff…and tell my mom," Mark replied, trying to not show how pleased he was, and knowing that his mother wasn't going to be entirely thrilled with this. He hadn't had a sleepover since he was about seven, and she didn't know Roger at all.

Once Mark had nodded, Roger offered, "I can give you a ride and wait for you, or you can just come back over." He paused and frowned. "Well, maybe not; I don't think you know where I live."

Glad for the excuse, Mark murmured an ascent to that. He would prefer that for now Roger didn't know that he didn't have a driver's license yet. He'd had his permit for about five months, but he hadn't even bothered to start behind-the-wheel training because his parents were terrified to let him into the driver's seat, and he wasn't so crazy about the idea either. Still, it was somewhat embarrassing for senior year of high school.

As they pulled up to Mark's house, he gestured that Roger should stay in the car. "My mom reacts better to impromptu plans if the other person isn't around," he explained, hurrying up to the door before Roger could protest. _More like…I can pretend that my mom isn't who she is if no one ever meets her_, he thought to himself.

Dropping his backpack in the hall, Mark could almost immediately hear, "Mark? Ma-ark? Is that you? Are you there?"

_Of course it's me. Who else would be coming in at this time?, _he thought. His older sister, Cindy, was in college a few hours away, and his dad didn't get home until almost seven. Still, he called back, "Yeah, hey Mom."

Turning to head upstairs to pack up some clothes, he was stopped by a hand on his shoulder. Mark looked back to face his mom, fake-looking ginger curls with blond roots piled above wide, dark eyes, and a green apron with flour spotting it reaching nearly to the floor. She pulled him into a dramatic hug, which he returned stiffly as she bestowed kisses upon both his cheeks.

"Mark, dear, I was thinking that today we could shop for some things for Cindy's apartment. She's moving in a week, and we're going to drive up to—"

"Not today, Mom," he interrupted, pulling out of her grip. "Actually, I was wondering if I could go stay at a friend's house tonight."

"You know I don't approve of boys and girls staying together overnight if there's no ring involved, darling."

"Mom! It's not Maureen. Besides, we're just friends anyway. This is a boy—a guy. His name's Roger. He was working with Maureen and I on a prot—project." He could imagine vividly what his mother would have to say if she heard about another one of Maureen's protests, so he rapidly edited his words.

She looked at him skeptically, and then beamed. "I'm so glad to hear that you have friends other than that girl!" she exclaimed, and Mark could feel a blush flooding across his features. Briefly he wondered if his mother derived some sick pleasure in pointing out how rarely he mentioned friends of his, and insulting Maureen in the same sentence. Apparently there was something "just not quite right" about her, according to his parents.

"So can I go, then?" he asked, shifting his weight impatiently, "Roger's waiting outside. He'll give me a ride over, so you don't have to worry about it."

For a moment he thought that she was going to disagree, but then she waved her hands, shooing me, instructing him in her typical overprotective manner, "Have a good time. Call me if you need anything, or you get lonely and want to come home."

Cheeks positively aflame now, Mark took off up the stairs, racing up them two at a time to his room. The first impression that most people had upon entering it was that of pictures. Photos in frames, tacked up on bulletin boards, resting on his windowsill, in albums set neatly into my bookcase. Pictures were everywhere, but set into some kind of general order to keep his parents happy. If they'd ever walked in to find his room in disarray, their ire would've flared instantly.

Mark upended his backpack, which he'd surreptitiously grabbed just before he ran upstairs, next to his bed, nudging the contents underneath his bed with the toe of his sneaker. Then he hurriedly grabbed clean clothes, a toothbrush, toothpaste, and a T-shirt to sleep in just in case Roger would be uncomfortable with his normal habit of sleeping in just boxers. Camera under one arm and backpack gripped in his other hand, he hurried back downstairs, called goodbye to his mom, and was out the door before she could stop him with anything else.

-----------------

When Roger pulled up to his house, Mark hopped out and followed him up the front walkway. He lived in a modest two-story job, with white-washed outside walls and a grey slate roof. It had a meager lawn in a small square in the front, and Mark was immediately embarrassed, thinking back on his own rather expansive property, and what Roger must have thought of it.

The taller boy clicked the door open with one of the three or four keys on his keychain, shoved it back into his pocket, and led Mark upstairs. The house was very quiet, but it had a comfortable atmosphere about it. It reminded Mark of the week before, when he and Maureen and Roger were all sitting around in the parking lot—quiet, but companionable. He liked it immediately.

Roger dropped his backpack to the floor just inside the door, not bothering to straighten it as it slumped over and took up half of the front entrance. For a moment, Mark was slightly jealous—if he'd left his stuff just lying around, his mother's Jewish roots would have had an apoplectic fit.

They headed up the short set of stairs into Roger's room, but about halfway there he paused. "Want anything to drink?" he offered, sounding like he really wasn't used to playing "good host," but thought that maybe he should.

Mark nodded. "Sure. Pop, if you've got it."

Not sure if he was supposed to wait or not, he opted for proceeding up the stairs to wait for Roger in his bedroom, listening to his fading footsteps.

Roger's bedroom looked nothing like Mark's. His walls were almost impossible to see beneath posters of various bands, singers, and models. His bed was unmade, the covers falling off, and a combination of clothes, CDs, and even some vinyls was strewn across the floor. A tower of CDs on his desk looked like it was on the verge of crashing over, and there was a little guitar shrine with amp, guitar stand, and myriad fliers advertising Roger's current band, Incendiary, and another that Mark assumed to be some former band of his. Mark couldn't imagine a way for the room to be more perfect.

After a minute or two, the back of his neck began to prickle with that feeling that tells you that someone's eyes are on you, and indeed, when he turned he found Roger watching him, as though waiting for his opinion. "It's not much, but it's mine," he explained.

Suddenly it dawned on Mark not only was Roger waiting for his opinion, but that he was _concerned _about it. Almost as if Roger needed approval just as much as Mark did. Suddenly a fresh layer of the seemingly flawless rocker was peeled back for consideration.

It was consideration for a later time, though, so Mark just grinned, dropping his backpack to the floor and setting his camera carefully on Roger's desk. "It's very….you." It was a pretty lame way to end a sentence, but that was the best way to describe it. The whole room just screamed _Roger_.

This seemed to put Roger at ease, because his uncaring face returned, and he shrugged and handed Mark a Coke, flicking his own open. When Roger brought the can to his mouth, he chugged about a third of it before setting it on the nightstand next to his bed and flopping down. Mark took a seat at the other end of the bed, trying to decide what to do.

As usual, it was Roger who broke the silence, which had become awkward. "Any chance that you've ever come to hear my band?" he asked, quirking an eyebrow as he took another drink, this one significantly smaller, from the red can beside him.

Regretfully Mark shook his head. "I've…um…I haven't exactly been to a concert before," he explained, tipping his own Coke up to his face to avoid Roger's eyes. His friend really did have nice eyes—piercing, but gentle when he was happy, and full of energy when he was interested in something. They were a really interesting shade of green, too. Mark's brow furrowed, and he banished the assessment of Roger's features before he ended up blushing, or something, and Roger started to wonder.

When he got around to looking at Roger again, the musician was reaching for the guitar by his bed, and plugging it into the amp on the floor. "Could I play something? I mean, you know, for feedback from someone that isn't going to say, 'OH MY GAWD, THAT WAS AMAZING, LET ME SLEEP WITH YOU NOW!'" As he mimicked the last part, he fluttered his hands around his face and batted his eyelashes.

The tension (that Mark figured Roger probably hadn't noticed anyway) had dissipated, and Mark nodded, so Roger leaned up against his headboard, pick in one hand, and started playing.

The song that poured forth wasn't something popular, or that Mark recognized at all. From Roger's smile—slight, and betraying some nerves—just before he began to play, Mark guessed that it was something that Roger had written himself.

He was good—really good. His voice was slightly higher than Mark had expected, but still had a wide range. He sang clearly, though with a rough edge, and Mark could understand why people threw themselves at his feet if he always sounded like that. He watched Roger's hands, mesmerized by the long fingers as he played. From the moment he began to play he was obviously in his element, eyes shut, head tilted back, and voice filling up the room.

When he'd finished, he blinked his eyes open and smiled, a little of the apprehension returning to his face. "What did you think?" he asked, searching Mark's face.

"OH MY GAWD, THAT WAS AMAZING, LET ME SLEEP WITH YOU NOW!" Mark yelled, the temptation too much to resist, and Roger reached over and punched him in the arm.

"Hey!" he yelped, sticking out a hand to swat Roger's head, but he ducked away too quickly, setting his guitar back on its stand and then jumping back on the bed to punch Mark lightly in the stomach. The smaller boy reached out again, and this time smacked Roger's shoulder before he grabbed Mark's arm and twisted it down behind him, then snatched the other and pinned him on his back too quickly for him to fight back.

It didn't come as a surprise; Mark had known Roger had height, weight, and speed on him, so he didn't really mind losing the impromptu battle.

"Heyyyyy, Rogerrrr, let me up!" he whined instead, as Roger grinned triumphantly down at him. Roger shook his head.

"You were asking for that one, Markyyyyy." He drew out the "y" so that it was long, making it almost sound like he was singing again. Mark made a face, sticking out his tongue, and Roger laughed, rolling to let him go free again.

Rubbing his arm, Mark sat up, and Roger gave him that little smirk that Mark had already come to associate with only him. It fit his features perfectly. Leaning back against the wall Mark told him, "Really, you were really good. If the rest of your band has your talent, then I think you guys have really got something."

Immediately, Roger assumed a crushed expression. "You think that other people can match my talent?"

Mark snorted. "Well, at least you don't have a problem with self-image."

-----------------

As he slowly rejoined the conscious world, Mark came to the increasing awareness that there was something touching him. With blurred vision, and in the room that was dark from having the blinds drawn, for a moment he wasn't sure where he was. Then he remembered—the trundle bed that pulled out from underneath Roger's.

They'd watched a couple movies the previous night, stopping to order a pizza and greet Roger's mom. Mrs. Davis looked like a female version of Roger, with shoulder-length, wavy blondish-brown hair and bright green eyes. She was completely the anti-Mrs. Cohen if there ever was one, lax, joking, easy to get along with.

At about two in the morning, they had dragged themselves back upstairs, stripped down to boxers (which Mark was relieved to find that Roger seemed to see as completely normal for them to both sleep in), and fell asleep on their respective beds.

Now Mark felt around on the floor next to him, retrieving my glasses as quietly as possible and rolling over. Roger was sprawled halfway between the two beds, facedown, with one arm encircling Mark's waist. He felt warm, and before Mark had gotten a chance to process much more than that, Roger jerked, mumbling something that sounded a lot like, "Mmmmkktik," and turning his head to face Mark.

A couple blinks later, he shot upright. "Shit, I'm sorry, man," he explained, sleep still thick in his voice. "I mean, I didn't…"

"It's okay, I know," Mark reassured him. It hadn't really struck him as being that strange, which was odd in itself. Normally Mark hated having people touch him, but with Roger, it just seemed normal. "I don't care."

Roger looked relieved, yawned so loudly that his jaw cracked, and flopped back down to sleep.


	6. Darkrooms, Perfect Faces, Egos

Disclaimer: It's all Jonathon Larson's. No one could hope to measure up anyway.

**Roger**

-just about a month later- 

Roger fought the urge to laugh as Mark stared at him with an expression that clearly stated that he thought Roger was absolutely out of his mind. "You—I—no. Absolutely not." He folded his arms stubbornly over his thin chest, shaking his head, _no; this is not a good idea, no, I can't do this._ Roger could read it all over his face.

"Awww, c'mon," Roger encouraged, "I'm going to be right next to you in case anything happens. Which it won't."

They were parked in the empty parking lot behind Mark's elementary school, abandoned for the weekend. A little earlier Roger had pried out of Mark, much to the boy's obvious chagrin and displeasure, that he'd never learned to drive, mainly because his parents didn't really want to teach him. Immediately Roger had taken it upon himself to introduce Mark to the world of driving.

"Besides," he tempted, stretching and wriggling about in the worn leather of his seat, "You want to know what it's like to drive, I can tell." Reaching over, he ruffled Mark's short blond hair, ignoring when Mark tried to duck away. "Aren't you just going crazy wondering?"

The returned glare, which Roger assumed was meant to be intimidating and convince him that Mark wanted no part in this business, was beginning to soften and look far less convincing. Not like he could ever manage to look particularly threatening, but now Roger could tell that he was just about to reach the brink and give in. Finally, shooting Roger a final attempted death-glare, Mark sighed and opened his door, clambering out and muttering, "Your insurance when I crash."

Chuckling as he securely fastened his seatbelt and making a point of testing it once he was in the passenger seat, Roger reassured him with, "You'll be fine. It's easy. In fact, it's really fun."

Mark snorted derisively. "Yeah—sorry, Rog. I don't trust your opinion of 'fun' when to you, standing up in front of a few hundred people screaming some punk-rock song that you wrote two days before constitutes fun. Oh, or seeing how fast you can drink a two-liter bottle of Coke. And did I mention—"

"You're stalling," Roger accused good naturedly, noting that Mark's knuckles were turning slightly white from gripping the steering wheel in front of him. Mark just gave him another look. "I'm just explaining why trusting you isn't the wisest thing that I could do if I want to be in a good situation. Or surive."

"Relax," Roger instructed, leaning enough to put a hand on either of Mark's shoulders. They were completely tensed, so he dug his thumbs into the T-shirt-covered muscles, lightly massaging as Mark took a deep breath and let him to loosen his shoulders. Always, Roger had been a very touchy person, and whereas before Mark had jumped anytime Roger initiated any contact that wasn't play-fighting, now he was getting more comfortable with gentler touches.

The week before, Roger had asked him why he was so paranoid about it, and Mark had explained that his mom was constantly picking at him, hugging him, laying a hand on his arm while they talked, etc, and his dad _never _touched him, and then changed the subject immediately. Roger let it lie there.

Once Mark didn't have quite such a death grip on the steering wheel, Roger continued, "Okay, turn the key all the way away from you. Yeah, further—"

_rrrrrrvvvvvvvvvv_

"Okay, okay, let go!" Mark dropped his hands as though the ignition had suddenly burst into in flames, and the engine quit its revving. His already pale face was absolutely pasty, and when Roger grinned brightly, he only managed a rather sickly smile in return before he looked straight ahead again.

"Okay, what now? I can't even turn it on right."

"Oh, it was fine. I should've warned you. Put the car into Drive. That one, yeah. Very good. Okay, now you've got awhile before you have to turn or anything so you can just put your foot down on the acceleration pedal—the smaller one—and…go."

_Wham_. The car jolted forwards, Roger's seat belt catching him when he nearly slammed his head into the glove department after snapping it violently back against the headrest as Mark floored it for about two seconds and then viciously stomped on the brakes.

"Shit, Mark, what the fuck? Dude, slowly, you can't just…"

Roger let his voice trail off as he looked at Mark. The smaller boy was bent forward, forehead resting on the steering wheel, absolutely cracking up. Unable to help it, Roger began laughing as well. He met Mark's eyes, and that just set them off into a louder fit.

Finally, once they had caught their breaths again, Roger suggested, "Maybe let's try that again…carefully…"

This time, he watched as Mark very cautiously lifted his foot from the brake and eased it down onto the gas pedal. They accelerated to twenty miles per hour, cruising easily towards the back fence. As they neared it, Roger calmly pointed left. "Start turning now. Yeah, like that." They car was turning, but he could tell that it was definitely not fast enough. "Mark—turn—no, more—KEEP TURNING!"

Panicking, Mark let go of the wheel, which Roger reached for and jerked around. The car swung widely along its shitty turning radius, just barely getting around without brushing the wire. "Brake!" he ordered, and Mark did so.

Roger put the car into park and turned to face Mark. This time he found him staring resolutely out the front windshield, face completely red and blue eyes glossy with fluid that he was furiously blinking back.

"Hey…you okay, man?" Roger queried, resting a hand on Mark's thin shoulder. When he tried to shrug it off, instead of moving away, Roger curled his fingers more tightly. Mark mumbled something inaudible.

"What, now?" Roger asked quietly.

"Now do you believe that I can't do it?"

Roger shook his head. "Nope. I think you're a lazy ass who's trying to get me to drive you everywhere. You're probably just that desperate to be in my presence."

Slowly a smile crept its weak way over Mark's features, even as he shook his head. "Roger—have I ever told you that you're insane?"

Content and satisfied that he'd gotten a positive reaction, Roger assumed an expression of deep thought. "Hmm, not too often—you're not usually one to state the obvious when your camera's not out." As Mark rolled his eyes, Roger rested his chin in the palm of his hand, lips turned upwards ever-so-slightly. For a moment, he could see Mark's eyes open wide, and then the boy blinked, looking away abruptly. Roger cocked his head.

"What?"

"Nothing. Really, Roger, nothing. I'm gonna try this 'driving' thing again."

For another moment Roger studied him, trying to figure out what he had obviously just missed, but Mark gave no sign that the awkward moment had even happened. He just started the car again and went back to going around the parking lot in circles, which were considerably more successful this time. Eventually, he managed to even park straight, and after that accomplishment, Roger decided that the driving lessons were over for the day and forgot about the strange emotion behind Mark's gaze.

----------------------

Since it was a Saturday and his band had a gig, Roger had gotten Mark to agree to come hear them play. It'd been a little while since they'd done a show, and as always when he was getting back up on the stage after not having been there for awhile, Roger was nervous. It wasn't nerves in the conventional not-wanting-to-do-it way, but more just hoping that people would show up, and that their new music would be received well by everyone.

For the first ten minutes or so, Mark was hanging around backstage, following him around like a puppy, while the rest of the band shot him sideways glances and made snide remarks under their breaths. Frankly, Roger didn't really care what they thought, because he and Mark had gotten pretty close, even already, and Mark didn't seem to really notice the disparaging comments about his wardrobe and incessant filming.

It wasn't long before Mark had realized that before gigs, Roger wasn't particularly social; Roger tended to want to sit off in his particular corner backstage, warming up, and occasionally leaping up to go make sure some equipment was in order, so Mark gave a little wave and headed out to find somewhere to watch from.

As Incendiary made its way onstage, with Roger stalking out last, he was greeted with the welcome sight of quite a good number of fans, leaping and screaming, some of the girls blowing kisses, and the smoky, salty smell of too many people in a fairly small room. Immediately, a grin broke over his face as he held up his guitar, and this brought more raucous cheers. Stepping up to the mic, he let his eyes, rimmed carefully in eyeliner, sweep the room until they finally singled out Mark.

He was wedged among people in the back, but Roger could see that nevertheless he had his video camera up. For a moment he drew the camera away from his face so that their eyes met, and he gave an encouraging smile that Roger returned, ignoring everything else around him for a few moments.

The sight of him there gave Roger any confidence that he was lacking, and a warm tingle that he couldn't quite name swept through his body. "Are you all ready for the most amazing night of music ever?" he growled into the microphone, and listened appreciatively as fresh cheers began. When he stood back, all it took to silence the whole room was one hand raised.

The band had a pretty fair selection, with five covers and eight original songs, three of which were new. In fact, one of them was the one Roger had played for Mark in his room not too long before, and when they started in on that one, Roger locked his eyes back onto Mark. He could see a grin sweep over the pale face as recognition dawned. It felt good, since Mark was obviously pleased.

By the time they'd finished, Roger was slick with sweat and his throat was completely dry from singing and giving the audience the occasional comments that they always loved, as though the prose was better than the poetry.

As people mobbed the stage, Roger escaped as quickly as he could. He got tired of the girls that flung themselves at band kids as though there was no tomorrow. It went along with that whole pleading, desperation thing again, and how much that bothered him.

Instead of plunging into the crowd to be fawned over, he went back to put his Fender away, and when he finally looked up again, Mark was standing there. Hurrying to his feet, Roger hugged him briefly. "Dude, thanks for coming," he said, voice raspy, and coughed slightly.

Looking concerned, Mark asked, "Are you alright?" Roger nodded.

"Yeah, yeah, fine, just my voice is dead. Well, so…?"

"It was…it was good. Not the kind of music I normally go for, but it was good. Your drummer could use some work, though…"

With a laugh Roger nodded. "Yeah…Cody thinks that he's amazing. And the girls usually can't tell and just think he's hot, so he gets more than his share of attention."

By now Roger had finished packing, and they were heading out of the crowded club, Roger in front of Mark like a shield as he shouldered through people while waving, trying to avoid overzealous fans. It took longer than he would have liked to escape, but finally they were outside, where he breathed in the cool air thankfully.

"You sound like you're jealous," Mark commented, continuing the conversation from before with his voice lower now that they could talk without shouting over the inside din.

Roger rolled his eyes, swiping at his hair, which was starting to droop forward under the combined weight of gel and sweat. "I'm better than that bastard any day. Not to mention a hell of a lot sexier."

"Yeah, really." Roger paused and turned to face Mark, eyebrows raised. His friend wore a strange expression that Roger couldn't read on his face. It was the same one that he'd caught a glance of earlier, and frankly, he was getting tired of not being able to tell where Mark's mind was.

"Did you just…" Roger began.

"I don't know." Mark replied quickly, ducking his head as he put the car between them so that Roger couldn't see him anymore.

Still trying to figure out what exactly he'd meant, Roger unlocked the car doors, sliding into the driver's seat. When Mark got in a moment later, his face was crimson. "I…uh…" he mumbled, rather ineffectively. Roger hid a smirk, thinking that Mark was cute when he was embarrassed.

His hand stilled, and he had to force himself to remember to start the car. _What?_ he thought to himself, flabbergasted. _I think it might be just a _bit_ strange to think that my best...best guy friend is cute. Even if he might have just said I was sexy. And I might have just interpreted that strangely_.

It bothered Roger more that he really didn't mind.

The ride to drop Mark off was spent in silence, broken only when Mark hurried out of the car, calling, "Great show…see you later!"


	7. A Leap Begins

Disclaimer: It's all Jonathon Larson's. No one could hope to measure up anyway.

**Mark**

Over the course of the next few days, Mark learned just how difficult it was to avoid Roger. It was really all that he wanted to do after his comment to Roger following his concert. The words had slipped out of his mouth before he could stop them, and as true as they were, it wasn't exactly a sentiment that he wanted to share with Roger.

Even if Roger obviously already knew it.

For Mark to say that he wasn't sure when the thought had first occurred to him would be a complete and total lie. They'd been watching a movie together at Roger's house about a week before, and his mom had come by and teasingly smacked the back of Roger's head. He'd immediately put up a show of being desperately hurt, falling over sideways so that his head landed in Mark's lap, finally breaking down and grinning up at his mom and Mark both.

Something had fluttered deep in Mark's stomach and, as he damned his hormones, most of the blood rushed out of his face and dropped straight downwards so quickly that he all but shoved Roger out of his lap.

Since then it had been nagging at him. He'd never had a really close guy friend before—there was only Maureen and the couple girls that she brought around. Oh, and Nanette, but she'd moved away after ninth grade, so that hardly counted. Way back in elementary school there were some guys that he had been somewhat close friends with, but they had drifted apart since then.

He spent more time that he really thought he should have assuring himself that that was probably all that it was. He decided that he was misinterpreting something new—being friends with a guy. After all, surely all guys (especially horny teenaged ones) noticed when other guys were attractive. They had to—they couldn't be _that _blind. It was just that no one ever talked about it, because then they were labeled a faggot, or some equally awful term that Mark had, in fact, been called in the past.

Mark really began to get concerned with when, the day after Roger had smiled with that dizzying grin that he had, slightly pointed incisors giving him the look of some dangerous predator that had been tamed enough to be lying back in Mark's lap, he went home and tried to get himself off.

That much was normal enough; Mark was a young guy that needed some release now and then. The part that worried him was that he couldn't get that smile out of his mind, and he started imagining quite a bit more that his mouth could be doing.

Mark didn't masturbate after that. It had been a week, but he didn't want to chance another slip like that—the thought of Roger's tight pants stretched tighter, and—well, in all honesty he was still thinking about it, just in more uncomfortable circumstances.

That all added up to why he really didn't want to face Roger after the concert. Onstage, as frontman, Roger had looked so impassioned, and when he turned to look at Mark while beginning the one song, the whole rest of the club had disappeared. There was only Roger singing his lungs out, and Mark holding up his camera so that he could keep the moment for all of eternity. He really wanted to be the microphone in Roger's hands—fingers wrapped tight around it and mouth nearly touching it.

Knowing that he shouldn't be thinking that only drove his mind to it more determinedly. That's why Mark had decided that the best thing to do was to just not be around Roger, so that Roger didn't have to be polluted by the sick fantasies that wouldn't leave Mark's mind.

Roger was nearly impossible to avoid. Mark didn't know how he did it. Whereas before they had only really seen each other in Government, at lunch, and after school, suddenly Roger seemed to be popping up everywhere. It might have just been an overly active imagination, but it was as if any hallway that Mark traversed, they passed by one another.

To make things all that much worse, every time Roger went by he'd nudge Mark's shoulder, or touch him lightly and smile. At the best, he'd wave, eyes trained on Mark and Mark alone, but that was bad enough. It wasn't like he could stop hanging out with Roger, either, because then it would be even more obvious that something was wrong, and Mark really couldn't explain what his sudden problem was.

Despite his best efforts, it was clear that Mark really didn't cover up the fact that something was amiss as well as he'd hoped, however, because it wasn't long before Roger confronted him about it. They had just gotten out of Government and Mark was all ready to make an excuse for why he couldn't go hang out with Roger, but before the words could leave his mouth, Roger grabbed him by the arm and dragged him around the building.

No one ever hung out back there, mainly because the history building backed up to a swampy area with reeds and grasses that reached almost to Mark's waist. Normally he would've protested the treatment that his shoes were getting, but Roger really didn't look in the mood to put up with whining, so Mark kept his mouth shut.

Once they were out of sight of anyone else, Roger all-but shoved Mark backwards against the bricks, and stood in front of him, one arm up to the side. Mark really didn't like the dangerous glint in his eyes, which were deeper green than he'd seen before. In fact, Roger's whole posture looked almost terrifying, as he leaned over Mark, staring right at him. That was something Mark still hadn't gotten used to yet—the way Roger constantly kept eye contact. His own eyes fidgeted everywhere, and he fervently wished for a camera to hide behind.

There was a very long moment of silence before Mark finally broke down. "Roger? Um…are you…okay?" The words came out pathetically quiet, but he couldn't make them more convincing with those eyes trained on him.

For a moment Mark thought that Roger was going to hit him, but instead, in a steely voice, he scoffed, "Oh yes, I'm always just wonderful when my best friend starts all-but hiding from me."

By then, Mark was honestly wishing that the wall would swallow him from behind. "Me? Hiding from you?"

That was the wrong thing to say, and Roger exploded. "Yes, Mark, hiding from me. As in avoiding me! Running away anytime I try to approach you! Don't play like you don't know what I'm talking about. I may not get top-notch grades like you, but I'm not _stupid. _There's something up, and I want to know what the hell it is. What the fuck did I do, Mark? Can't you even tell me?" His voice sounded on the verge of breaking at the last sentence, and when Mark chanced a glance at him, Roger's eyes were a mixture of pain and anger.

"I'm…you didn't…I'm not…" There were a few false starts before Mark could figure out anything to say. "You didn't do anything, Roger. It's just…me."

Now Roger looked confused, on top of the other emotions, and impatient. He ran a hand through his hair in a gesture of frustration. "Well, then what aren't you telling me about? Can't you trust me?"

"It's…I don't think I should. It'd cause…problems."

Roger was yelling now, breathing hard and glaring. "Well, guess the fuck what, Mark? It's already causing problems!"

Mark didn't have a response to that, because although it was true, that didn't make it any easier to know what to say. _Roger, I think I might have a crush on you, but it might just be that you're the first guy that I've been close to since puberty, so maybe not. _How about, _Roger, I can't jerk off anymore because all I think about as what your hands would feel like, and what color of green your eyes would turn if you were turned on._ Yeah. Those were both wonderful options to confide to your best same-gendered friend. Mark tried to face the fact that he was just a screwed up kid and Roger was going to hate him.

There was another long moment of silence before Roger shrugged in what Mark supposed he was trying to make into an uncaring manner. It just came off as him looking more upset, which Mark assumed was the case. "You know what? Just…fuck it all. If you can't fucking tell me and don't want to be around me, then I don't see why I'm bothering to stick around."

_Shit. Fuck. No, that's not what's supposed to happen._

He turned, making as if he was going to leave, and Mark finally managed to squeak out, "Rog…wait."

He half-turned back, lips pressed tightly together, probably to keep from yelling again. "What?" The word was spat out with enough venom that Mark shrunk down a little further. He'd never seen Roger angry like this before.

"I…uh…" There really wasn't any graceful way to go about it. "It's just that…I've been having a lot of thoughts lately that are really…weird."

Finally Roger looked at him, really looked, not just glaring, and some of the anger was gone from his gaze, though the pain still remained in full force. "Okay…" he said, his voice softer now, waiting for a further explanation.

A silent sight escaped Mark's lips. This was it. He was about to lose himself the friend that mattered the most to him other than Maureen, all because of some stupid teenaged hormonal shit that he was obviously doing a really poor job of controlling. "I…um..." This seemed to be a new favorite starting phrase. "I've been feeling stuff about—it's stupid, I mean, I don't think I'm—it's just that you're—well, we've gotten close and you're—it's probably nothing."

The way he'd worded his confession might have been lacking in eloquence because he couldn't get himself to say it straight-out, but it seemed to get the point across. A blush had stolen its way quite conspicuously across his cheeks, ears, and neck, and he was looking anywhere he could other than at Roger, tossing tiny peeks at his friend from time to time to see how he was taking it.

Roger looked stunned, and Mark really didn't blame him. At least some of the hurt had lifted from his expression. Mark bit one lip nervously, chewing on it and trying his best to disappear. "Um…Roger, sorry, I shouldn't—"

Roger cut off the apology as he took a few steps closer so that the two boys were only about six inches apart, and Mark forgot what he was trying to say. Standing there, he couldn't imagine wanting anything more than Roger with his dark blond hair and rough skin, confusion and uncertainly roiling through his eyes, and hands tucked into his back pockets.

Mark knew that if he looked at Roger now, he was either going to do something incredibly stupid, or else stare until Roger was freaked out enough to actually walk away for real, this time, so he tried to focus on his shoes instead. There was a splotch of mud on the toe of one, and he needed to make sure to get it off before his mom saw.

The rough voice was considerably brighter this time, when Roger spoke. "Do you really think I'm sexy?"

"I—what?" _Roger, please don't play games with me._

"I asked if you really think that—"

Mark's voice went up about an octave at that point. "Are you going to just make fun of me? Because if so, tell me, and I'll just walk away and you can go—"

"Look, Mark, sorry that you think I'm messing with you; I'm not. It's just the only way I can think of to bring it up."

"Bring _what_ up, Roger?" Mark could feel every brick pressed into his back as Roger leaned forward slightly, smelling like aftershave and hair gel, firmly holding Mark's eyes with just his gaze.

"That I'd really like for you to think that." Roger, the rock-star sex-god, was actually blushing slightly, pink tingeing his cheekbones ever-so-slightly. Mark was pretty much forgetting how to breathe, so he inwardly coached himself _in…out…in…out_. That might have worked better if it didn't bring something else to mind as well.

"Uhhhhh." Mark thought that Roger had to have been amazingly impressed by his brilliant syntax today. He was glad Roger hadn't commented yet.

Instead, one arm snaked out and his thumb, calloused like all of his fingertips from guitar, rubbed across Mark's forehead near his hairline as the hand curved around the side of his head. Mark wanted to melt into the touch, and he bit back a sigh at how good the gentle hand felt.

Another inch and their faces would be touching. "I'd really like to know what else you've been thinking about me, also," Roger purred, looking much more like the self-confident, unfaltering Roger that Mark knew, now. Mark's face flamed even more hotly, particularly because it wasn't the only part of him that was reacting to his friend's closeness and sensuous speech.

"Roger…what are you?…I mean…" Mark couldn't form coherent sentences at all anymore, and he vaguely wondered how long it had been since anything that he'd said had made sense. Roger, thankfully, seemed to know implicitly what he meant.

"Who knows?" he remarked, and closed the rest of the distance between them.

Mark had been kissed before—once by Maureen after her first drama production that he showed up at with roses, but that hadn't meant anything. There was one time that he and Nanette, in an act of young rebellion, had kissed, too—they had tried to make out, but her lip had gotten caught on his braces and started to bleed, so that had signaled the end of that endeavor.

Kissing Roger was completely different. He was so warm that Mark was afraid of being burned, and not submissive like Nanette had been. It was only a moment before Roger's tongue was at Mark's lips, pushing inside and exploring his mouth, turning his legs to jelly. He was afraid he was going to fall, and even slid down the wall an inch or two, but Roger stopped his progress with a very well-placed knee between his legs. Mark moaned against him, and Roger's hands gripped his shoulders, hanging on as if letting go would herald the Apocalypse.

Then it was over and Roger was drawing back, both of them shaking slightly. With a dry tongue, Mark licked his lips, and Roger mimicked the action, remarking, "You taste good." Mark blinked at him, his brain still trying to catch up with his senses.

The first thing that he managed to blurt out, to his immediate embarrassment, was, "I didn't know you liked guys."

Roger raised an eyebrow (and God, Mark wanted a picture of him looking exactly like that), and replied, "Yeah, I didn't know I did either."

Glad that he wasn't offended, Mark timidly but boldly ventured, "Maybe we should try that again…just to make sure."

Immediately Roger was kissing him again, and this time, he was able to kiss back with just as much ardor, only parting when they were both gasping for breath. He looked at Roger, whose lips were slightly parted, and shivered at the appearance.

Silence stretched between them, until Roger finally spoke. "I have practice. You know, for the band," he mumbled uncertainly, and Mark nodded, dazed and unsure of what that was supposed to mean.

"Okay…um…see ya later, Roger."

He waved, and then he was gone, leaving Mark desperately praying that he would, indeed, be seeing him later.


	8. To Blow Off Aunty Emm

Disclaimer: It's all Jonathon Larson's. No one could hope to measure up anyway.

**Roger**

Walking away from Mark, shoes squishing in the thick mud, Roger's mind set up a rhythm to his footfalls. _Left, right, left, right, shit, shit, shit, shit._ What had just happened? In fact…what had he just done? He headed for the car, mind reeling dizzyingly. Halfway there, he heard feet slapping the pavement behind him. 

The school had pretty much emptied out by that time, and the sound bounced around the large buildings, echoing in the bare courtyard. Long before he turned around he knew that it was Mark running after him, so he stopped walking. Slowly Roger swiveled to face Mark, who had paused to catch his breath. After a moment he looked at Roger, his eyes pleading and nervous, and gestured behind them. "What…just happened?" he asked, words shadowing the thought that had been tumbling through Roger's own mind.

He studied Mark, his mind utterly jumbled. When Mark had haltingly tried to explain what was wrong earlier, a lot of things had clicked into place for Roger—suddenly the occasional flickers of emotion in his eyes made sense, and he'd just looked so sweet and desperate and needy that Roger done what came reflexively to him— kissed Mark.

Never before had Roger been even remotely attracted to another guy. Girls were definitely appealing, but even racking his brain, he couldn't come up with any other guys that he thought were at all desirable, and certainly none that he'd want to kiss. Only Mark.

Mark was standing there in front of him, still looking sad and lost but determined. Roger knew that Mark wasn't planning to walk away or let him go until he'd gotten answers or an argument, depending on Roger's reaction. He studied Mark, trying to come up with some adequate answer to explain himself.

All of what Roger had said before was true. He _did _want Mark, as strange as that was for him, and he cared a great deal about him. He cared enough not to want to fuck things up as far as friendship went, though, and he thought he might have just done that.

He didn't realize that he'd let the pause stretch too long until Mark asked again, voice scratchy with evidence of a dry throat, "Roger?"

That snapped him back to the present, and he blinked a few times. "Yeah….well….I'm pretty sure what just happened was that we just kissed, and we obviously both enjoyed it. Is that a good summary?"

He knew that he was provoking Mark a bit, and indeed, a spasm of annoyance crossed his features, but his voice stayed steady. "Thanks, I'd caught that much of it. But why? Why did you do that?" A note of panic stole into his tone. "Were you just doing that to ridicule me?" By the time he got to the last word, he'd slipped nearly to a whisper, and Roger was already shaking his head.

He looked so small to Roger, and not just because he was a few inches shorter. Just like back by the wall, Mark had shrunk down into himself, and Roger walked forward a few steps so they were closer together. After another glance around told him that there was no one in sight, he took Mark's hands, squeezing them tightly. "I'm not trying to hurt you. I'm trying to keep you from being hurt. You're a great guy, Mark, and I want—you. However I can have you, as a friend or…"

Mark's eyes, bright blue with emotion, snapped up to meet Roger's. This time when he spoke, he all but squeaked. "Me? You want…me? How—_why_?"

Roger was struck by the absolute incredulity in his voice, as though he couldn't imagine why anyone could possibly be attracted to him. "Do you want me to make a list?" Roger asked dryly, then continued, "Well, you're smart. We have fun together. Your eyes are amazing and you're cute as hell when you're embarrassed. Oh, yeah, and I think guys with cameras glued to their faces are pretty damn sexy." Mark's face was flaming as intended, but he was grinning, too.

"You're serious, aren't you? That wasn't just something that we're never going to refer to ever again, and pretend didn't happen?"

Roger tightened his grip on Mark's hands, which were soft and smooth within his own, and used that as leverage to pull the smaller boy towards him until he could set Mark's hands on his shoulders. He slipped his arms around Mark's waist, taking note of how different holding Mark was in comparison to a girl. Mark was more solid, and a little more hesitant, but Roger supposed that the latter would pass.

Mark's face was already tilting up towards him as Roger leaned down to kiss him. He could feel Mark trembling in the embrace, and the lingering uncertainty was comforting—even somewhat of a turn on. This kiss was longer and more persistant than the previous ones, and they took their time about delving into each corner of one another's mouths, occasionally letting their tongues meet and dance together with awkward youthful grace.

It was driving Roger crazy, how slowly they were going, so he pulled Mark closer, crushing their mouths together more roughly. He could feel Mark gasp against his mouth, and that only encouraged him to kiss the other boy harder, hips pressing together even just standing there, and Roger shivered at the feel of the length of their bodies in contact.

Mark moaned slightly as they broke apart, both breathing hard. Looking as if it was the last thing he wanted to bring up, Mark asked haltingly, "Don't...you have to go...to…"

"Band practice?"

"Yeah."

"Well, fuck band practice. I'm not the one that needs practice anyway."

Mark chuckled a little, as he always did when Roger was being particularly arrogant, but Roger really didn't mind. Instead, he ruffled Mark's hair, causing him to pout and duck away. "Bastard," he muttered.

Roger grinned cockily. "Technically that's true, but you don't have to insult my parents. Passion's a dangerous thing."

He looked shocked, but recovered quickly. "Oh, is it? Why's that?"

Predatorily Roger stalked towards Mark, training his eyes on him. "Because…it makes you do things…like this." He leapt forwards, grabbing Mark into another breathless kiss, and just as they were getting into it, started tickling his waist.

Violently the prey bucked away, sputtering. "Roger! You're horrible!"

"Yeah, I don't know why I'm allowed out. Really, you ought to just tie me up somewhere inside and do something to punish me for how bad I've been."

Mark was trying really hard not to laugh, Roger could tell, and it was definitely not going well for him. Instead, he shoved Roger lightly, and Roger grabbed his wrist before he could escape. From there, he transferred his grip to Mark's waist, pulling him close enough that he could pick the smaller boy up, marveling at how light and scrawny Mark was. Still, Roger was barely able to do it because Mark was kicking so much, but he had enough of a hold on Mark to get him to the ground where he wanted. Once Mark was flat on his back, Roger straddled his waist and sat down on top of him.

Immediately, Mark stopped struggling to get away, instead helplessly pushing his hips up slightly so that Roger absolutely couldn't miss the effect that he was having on Mark's body. Since the effect was the same for Roger, he smiled and winked, thrusting his hips and leaning down to press their lips together again for good measure.

Suddenly a sharp voice snapped through the air, and Roger whipped his head back up, looking for the source. A thin, sticklike woman with large, cat-eye glasses and a high-collared shirt was glaring them down. "Excuse me, young man," she said, addressing Roger, since he was the most visible of the two, "what exactly do you think you're doing?"

Roger held her gaze, rather than climbing off of Mark and looking down to mumble an apology as he was sure was the intended effect of her icy question. Instead, just as coldly, he responded, "Making out. What's it look like?"

If it was even possible, the woman turned even more stiff, her nose pointed upwards, showing exactly what she thought of them. Roger stood up then, and Mark did also, brushing himself off and looking nervously over to see who Roger was talking with. Though he wasn't watching Mark, Roger imagined that he most likely went ghost-pale, because the woman's eyes widened and she said, "Mark Cohen?"

"Hi Miss Tilly," he croaked faintly, and then, almost inaudibly, whispered, "Rog, I think that maybe we ought to go."

Roger stubbornly shook his head; the woman's reaction had only pissed him off more. Just loudly enough for her to hear, he replied, "She's being a self-righteous bitch with a stick up her ass."

If her eyes narrowed any more, Roger figured she wouldn't even be able to see them any longer, and they could just go back to what they had been doing. "Young man, I should have you suspended for speaking to me in that manner."

Roger sneered. "First of all, it's after school, so you really can't suspend me, and second, I wasn't addressing you, I was addressing him," he shot back, gesturing towards Mark. Mark, who was tugging at him now, trying to get him to leave the confrontation in the obvious hope that he wouldn't make things worse than they already were.

Miss Tilly's face pinched, and she was almost at a loss for words. Finally she spat, "I would have hoped that a student of mine could conduct himself with more school-appropriate behavior while on school grounds, and surround himself with more savory people." With that, she turned and marched off, nose still pointed up into the air, carrying herself in such a way that it was obvious that she thought she was better than either of them by far.

Only Mark's hand on Roger's arm and his desperate voice urging him to leave kept Roger from running after the woman and telling her exactly what kind of bitch he thought she was. Instead, smoldering, he turned around, grabbing Mark's hand and heading for the front of the school.

Finally they reached the front, and Mark quietly asked, "Rog?" Roger looked at him, and stopped walking.

"I just can't believe that she would—"

"Roger, that was one of my _teachers_ back there. You just…I mean, she…"

Calming down, Roger looked at Mark now with worry, and saw that once again he looked scared and a little angry. It struck him deeply, and immediately he amended, "Mark, I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking, I was just mad about what she was saying, and how she was looking at us so I didn't think…I'm sorry."

Slowly Mark drew his eyes from the ground back up to Roger and smiled faintly. "It's okay. I'm not mad at you. I hate her anyway. But if she tells anyone…"

"So what? Does it matter if anyone knows? If it does…then we'll call her a lying bitch. And same if she tries to lower your grade, or whatever. Prejudiced." Roger shook his head and opened his arms, into which Mark came quite willingly. Mark set his head on Roger's shoulder and Roger kissed his cheek before taking his hand again and leading him towards the car.

--------------------------

Lying in bed that night, thinking back about Mark was a heady feeling, and Roger was still amazed at how the day had panned out.

He'd known that Mark was something special from the beginning, but he hadn't expected them to go from being close, best friends to…what? Boyfriends? Really good friends who liked to kiss…make out…maybe more? Roger wasn't sure, so he pushed the uncertainties out of his mind for the moment, and instead concentrated on remembering the details.

Mark's lips had tasted like some tingly chapstick that Roger had really enjoyed, and when they were pressed together he could feel the outline of Mark's erection through his jeans. It was an wasn't something he'd ever thought would feel so good, but it _did_, not only because of the extra friction it provided, but because it was an obvious sign that Roger's feelings were reciprocated in full.

He fell asleep with Mark's face in mind, content and calm.


	9. Banana By the Bunch

Disclaimer: It's all Jonathon Larson's. No one could hope to measure up anyway.

**Mark**

-three weeks later- 

"I'm bored."

Mark rolled his eyes. "Roger, you're bored about fifteen hours of the day. The rest of the time you're asleep and don't know the difference."

Giving Mark a look accompanied by with what Mark had to admit was a rather appealing pout, Roger protested, "I am not. I get more sleep than that." Roger wriggled across his bed, which they had been lying on in a vain attempt to start working on homework, and set his head on Mark's side.

Mark was sitting propped up on one elbow, so he flopped down on his back and Roger came to rest on his stomach. Quietly he watched the dark blond head move slowly up and down with his breathing, finally reaching out a hand to stroke Roger's hair.

It amazed Mark how much more comfortable he was becoming with being touched. Never before had he had much use for it, but Roger was just so…touchable. As tough as he always looked, when they were alone, Roger was always cuddling up next to Mark, resting a hand on his leg, or pulling him close into one of those amazingly breathless kisses.

As Mark absently ran his hand through Roger's short spikes of hair he stared at the ceiling, not really concentrating on much. He didn't have any real ideas of anything to do to relieve Roger's boredom, other than making out, but Roger seemed to be in one of his moods where he _actually_ wanted to go and _do _something, so Mark kept quiet.

About twenty seconds later, Roger popped up and rolled onto his stomach to look Mark in the eye, putting their faces about six inches apart. As always, Mark's breath caught slightly in his throat at the sight of Roger so close.

"I have an idea," Roger announced, smiling wickedly. Involuntarily, Mark's mouth was being drawn into a smile also.

"What is it?" he replied, matching Roger's low volume, as though whatever idea he had was a secret to be shared just between the two of them.

"I think…" There was a pause, suspending a silence between them, making Mark wait in anticipation for whatever grand scheme was being planned this time. "…that we should go ice skating!" Roger finally finished.

Mark gaped for a moment. "Ice skating?" he finally replied, parroting the words in surprise. "But…Rog, I haven't ice-skated since I was like ten…" On a list of things that he had expected to have suggested, ice skating certainly wouldn't have made an appearance.

Mark could see that Roger was already nodding eagerly to himself, sitting up and swinging his legs over the edge of the bed as he considered his idea. As he headed to his closest, rummaging through it, he called over his shoulder, "We just need sweatshirts and like five dollars apiece and we'll be set!"

Over the last few months, Mark had found that when Roger got stuck in one of his determined moods, he was impossible to dissuade. It was actually rather attractive anyway, when to see him so set on an idea.

A moment later, a soft, patch-worked jacket was tossed onto the bed next to Mark, and a disheveled-looking Roger fully emerged from the closet, clutching a plain, black, hooded sweatshirt for himself. It crossed Mark's mind that Roger looked particularly sexy like that, with his hair mussed and a little colour in his cheeks from being bent over. It was akin to how he looked after he'd been singing or making out, and Mark wanted to have him come close enough that he could pull Roger back onto the bed and rip away the clothes he was wearing.

Quickly Mark put the brakes on that particular train of thought before it could go any further, but his body was already reacting to the idea. To hide it and distract himself, Mark grabbed the coat that Roger had thrown to him and drew it into his lap, examining it. Roger looked at him apologetically and said, "It's kind of a dorky jacket, but I can't find my other sweatshirt. My grandma gave that to me."

Mark laughed as he imagined Roger wearing something like that. The idea didn't really compute, and he shook his head. "It's fine. I don't mind," he replied truthfully, pulling on the jacket and breathing in the warm, comfortable smell that was Roger.

When he looked back up, Roger was watching him with a strange, dark look. "What?" Mark asked, raising an eyebrow. As Roger wormed his way into his sweatshirt, his answer was muffled by the fabric.

"I think you should keep it, that's all," Roger informed him, once Mark could understand him again. Mark waited questioningly, and Roger shrugged, continuing, "It looks…really good on you."

He approached Mark, the predatory look that often filled his eyes shining there brightly. Mark tried not to quiver as Roger bent close, face only an inch away, hands on Mark's shoulders, and whispered breathily, "Really good."

Then their lips were pressed together, and Roger forced Mark over backwards onto the dark comforter, climbing on top of him and pinning his arms down at the wrists. Mark couldn't move his upper body; Roger was lying on top of him, so instead he wrapped his legs up around Roger's waist. Completely hard now, Mark could tell that Roger was also, so the contact as they both pressed together caused them both to moan slightly.

It felt to Mark like Roger was doing his utmost best to bruise Mark's lips, but he really didn't mind at all. Then Roger was sucking his way along Mark's jaw for just long enough that he could only manage to murmur, "Mmm…yes…ah," or something to that effect before he was being kissed again.

Then the delicious warmth that had been shooting through him was gone as Roger rolled to one side and sat up, lips curled in what looked like a cross between satisfaction and disappointment. It was a strange duel look. Sitting up much more slowly, eyes wide in protest at the loss of contact, Mark choked out, "What…? Why'd you stop?"

Roger offered him a hand up and matter-of-factly stated, "We're supposed to be going ice-skating."

Mark hated that Roger had so much sway over him sometimes.

Well, he didn't really mind that much, but it seemed like it could be dangerous. He pretty much followed Roger's every whim and wish, because he was absolutely crazy for him, and wanted to do anything he could to please him. Roger was completely in control, but that was fine, because they were young and had all the time in the world to do anything and everything that they both wanted.

Once in the car, Mark scooted as close to Roger as he could without sitting on top of the gear shift. It was a chilly day, and the heat in Roger's car was very temperamental. Today it was taking a particularly long time to respond, but with Roger's arm around him, Mark didn't care all that much.

It was only a ten minute drive to the ice-skating rink anyway, and they parked close to the building, jogging up to door and slipping inside. They handed over their money and picked up skates, going to benches near the actual rink to lace them up.

Mark sat down, and then jumped up with a small yelp a moment later, rubbing at his backside, where an icy pool of water that had been residing on the bench was now soaking into his pants and, ultimately, underwear. Roger took one look and burst out laughing, hard enough that it was a full minute before he could go back to lacing his skates.

Glaring indignantly, Mark finished with his own and stood, walking down to the tiny entrance. He stepped gingerly onto the ice, ankles wobbling against the leather that had undoubtedly once been stiff, years before, but was now cracking and not doing nearly enough to support him. Tightly he gripped the cool wall of the arena, cheeks flushed from the cold and the irrational feeling that everyone was watching him. Roger squeezed past him and onto the slick ice with an almost boneless grace, taking off before Mark had the chance to protest.

In barely any time at all, Roger had completed a cycle and was back, spinning so that he stood backwards in front of Mark. He grinned and gestured with a gloved hand, encouraging brightly, "C'mon, _Marky_. Skate with me!"

Mark scowled at Roger's use of Maureen's favourite nickname and told him moodily, "I can't. I'm going to kill myself."

This assertion was met with, "Well, just try. We didn't pay for you to just stand here." In actuality, Mark had only come because he wanted to be with Roger, but that was an undisputable point that he acknowledged with a grim nod. Keeping a death grip on the wall, he pushed a few feet forward.

Roger's smile split his thin face, and he slowly skated backwards, keeping in front of Mark all the time. "Let go of the wall," Roger commanded, holding out both hands and wiggling his fingers. Mark stopped skating for a moment and looked nervously at that beaming grin that Roger still wore, then around the rest of the ice rink.

If they held hands, Mark knew perfectly well that people would stare—they'd give those _looks_. He hated being _looked _at like that. His whole life was about analyzing other people, watching them from the safe and unsurpassable distance that his camera afforded him. Being looked haughtily down upon was what he was constantly trying to avoid.

Roger was still standing there waiting, his smile beginning to droop downwards slightly as Mark stayed unresponsive. That got to him, just like every time, and he sighed inwardly as he took the proffered hands, praying that no one nearby would notice or care, because obviously _Roger _didn't care if they did or not. Pretending that it was okay, for Roger's sake.

Roger's gloved hands closed over Mark's bare ones, and he could feel where there was a hole in the ball of Roger left glove thumb, because his warm skin rubbed against Mark's. Then he started skating, dragging Mark with him. Mark concentrated determinedly on Roger's eyes, which he kept darting around to make sure they weren't about to bowl down any small children, but which he ultimately returned to Mark every time. That made him smile…in the end, he was always the focus for Roger.

Roger picked up speed slightly, and they glided around and around the rink. "How'd you get so good at skating, anyway?" Mark asked at one point, and Roger frowned slightly.

"My mom used to teach here, part time, before she went back to school. I got to take classes for free." He shrugged a little and pushed a little faster, and Mark dropped the subject. He still didn't know a whole lot about Roger's family life, but he'd gotten enough to figure out that Roger's dad wasn't around and his mom was a secretary and hated her job, which left her little time for her son.

As Mark mulled over thoughts about Roger's dysfunctional family, and his own less-than-perfect home life also, the back of Roger's skate caught in a groove in the ice. To Mark, his friend looked comical, mouth dropping open and eyes going amazingly wide as his arms wind-milled crazily for a moment. The next thing he knew, they were both collapsed in a tangle of limbs and clothes on the surface of the rink, with Mark's head in Roger's lap and Roger shaking with laughter.

After that mishap, they didn't end up skating for much longer. It was probably only forty five minutes or so before they were ushered off with everyone else so the zamboni could be brought forward. Mark gave a private sigh of relief—as much as he liked an excuse to clutch Roger's hands, feeling like he was on the verge of icy death while doing so wasn't the kind of exhilaration that he preferred.

As they stepped off the ice, Mark gave Roger a pleading look. "If we don't have to do that again, I'll buy you hot chocolate," he offered. Roger dissolved into laughter, and Mark could feel a blush creeping over his features. Actually, he'd mainly gotten used to having Roger laughing at him, and in a way, he liked it.

It gave him a sense of approval and acceptance, which he craved more than he liked to admit. Everyone craved approval from Roger. He was so self-assured that it was inevitable. Most of Mark's time was spent trying to provoke his smiles.

Right now it was easy. Roger was in a good mood, silly and grinning as they dropped off their skates and wandered into the small café that adjoined the ice rink. Mark let himself be pushed into a booth and smiled as Roger slipped in across from him, stretching his long legs out to put them on Mark's lap.

"Asshole," he snapped fondly, reaching down to shove Roger away.

"Not yet," Roger smirked in reply with a wink. A slight cough caught the boys' attention, and they looked up to see a matronly woman watching us with raised eyebrows and pursed lips. Once they had turned towards her, she asked stiffly, "Are you…boys…ready?"

Roger was starting to get that look on his face—the dangerous one that said that he was about to say something particularly obnoxious, possibly something that would get them thrown out—so Mark hurriedly replied, "Two hot chocolates. Please."

The waitress smiled tightly, jotted something on her pad, and had begun to turn away before Roger threw in his two cents' worth. "Actually," he stated seriously, "I'd also like a _banana split._ For us to _share._ With a good. Big. Banana. Because those are our _favourite._"

He emphasized his words without cracking a smile, just speaking very exaggeratedly. Mark was torn between horror and hilarious laughter as the woman nodded curtly and hurried off. "You're horrible!" he told Roger, who flicked his tongue a few times.

"A good, big one," Roger repeated, and they both burst out laughing.

The first thing Roger did when they got back to his house was pull Mark into a lazy kiss. His large hands came to rest on Mark's shoulders, and Mark moaned lightly against his lips. That was all the encouragement he needed, and suddenly Mark found himself pushed back against the wall next to the door, with Roger hungrily delving his tongue into his mouth.

Mark pushed back, wanting to feel weight against him, and suddenly Roger's hands were in between them as he fumbled at the button of Mark's jeans. Little electric shocks shot through him, from commingled desire and uncertainty.

The uncertainty was all but washed away once Roger had gotten the button and zipper undone and wasted no time at all in wrapping his hand around Mark's cock and squeezing. They'd never gone this far before—up until now it had only been heavy making out and rubbing against each other through our jeans, with the awkwardness inherent to teenagers who don't know what exactly is going on.

Roger's hand jerked up and down arrhythmically; he wasn't quite sure what the hell he was doing, but Mark was too turned on and it felt too good for that to matter. He was having a hard time keeping their mouths connected as he gasped and gripped Roger's shoulders. It was really only the wall behind him and the knee Roger had pushed between his legs keeping Mark upright. He sunk a little so that he was riding Roger's leg, and they both moaned.

Roger sped up his hand slightly, finding the rhythm to match Mark's increasingly hard thrusts, and much too soon he came, spilling into Roger's hand and across the front of both of their pants. That brought a tinge of redness to his face, and he mumbled, "Sorry, I…" but was cut off as Roger caught him in another hard kiss.

When Roger finally pulled back again, eyes dark with lust, he purred, "I can think of a good way for you to make it up to me." Mark blushed hotly, but reached out and unzipped Roger's tight jeans. With the spontaneity ended, they both looked awkwardly at one another, but then Mark reached out a tentative hand to grasp Roger.

"Oh fuckkkk," the guitarist moaned, shoving him back against the wall. He figured that meant that he was doing something right, so he continued with quick strokes. "Harder," Roger breathed, thrusting against Mark. His voice, low and thick, emboldened Mark, and he did as he was asked, speeding up and going harder.

Roger held out longer than Mark had, but not by a whole lot, which made him feel somewhat better about himself. Sometimes he thought that Roger seemed so much older, and so much more mature and experienced, but despite that, with both of their sweaty, oversexed bodies pressed together, Mark figured that whatever they had, it was working.

OOC: So...finally I'm done posting the portions that I was rewriting. From here on in, it'll be new material. Also, this was finally the first chapter that actually meritted the M rating.


	10. A Fire in Your Brain

Disclaimer: It's all Jonathon Larson's. No one could hope to measure up anyway.

**Roger**

Lying on his bed on a Sunday afternoon, Roger brooded. He was good at it; his mom had always told him that with all of his ability for angst, she sometimes wasn't sure if she had a teenage boy or girl. It was good for his songwriting, too, so his band didn't complain much if Roger was having an off day, because they knew that eventually, he would make it up to them with some song that would knock the audience backwards (if the alcohol and whatever else they got in clubs didn't do that to begin with). 

Right now, he was dwelling on thoughts about Mark, which almost guaranteed that he would have more material for music pretty soon. They were graduating in only a few months, and Roger wasn't sure what was going to happen once they were out of high school.

As he sighed and reached for his guitar to give a more melodramatic backdrop for his thoughts, the phone rang, making him jump and grab for the extension in his room.

"Hello?"

Mark's familiar voice rang out from the other end. "Hey Roger, could I come over for awhile? I want to do homework, and Cindy's visiting for the weekend, so every couple minutes someone pops into my room to…"

Though he kept talking, Roger's mind wandered away from what Mark was saying and towards whether or not he actually wanted Mark to come over right now. He wasn't in the best frame of mind, but then again, all Mark wanted was a quiet place to do homework. With that in mind, he let Mark finish prattling on about how irritating it was to have his sister home.

"Yeah, sure, come on over. No one's home, so just let yourself in. I'll be in my room," he responded, and they made their quick goodbyes before he hung up the phone.

Once he was back on his bed, Roger picked up his guitar again and began picking out tunes, simple, familiar ones. He settled into a chord progression that he liked but continuously had trouble with, playing it again and again until he heard the front door crack open. There had been no noise of a car, and Roger felt a brief pang of sympathy, because Mark had obviously walked over.

Gentle footfalls tapped up the stairs and then Mark appeared in the doorway, giving a small wave which Roger responded to with a simple nod. He was stretched out across the bed, and as Mark approached, he bent his knees up so that Mark could sit on the other end.

With a wavering smile, Mark said, "So, what've you been up to today? Not at church, I assume?"

Roger chuckled, but it was a distracted sound, and shook his head, not looking up from his guitar. Apparently Mark took the hint that Roger wasn't in a talking mood, because he started pulling things to work on out of his backpack, and his brow furrowed in concentration.

After a little while, Roger set his guitar back off to the side. He knew that there were certain topics that he and Mark sidestepped gracefully all the time, never talking about. It wasn't because they didn't trust one another—they were just uncomfortable subjects to begin with, like their home lives or their futures. Important subjects that they tried to never touch on in the fear that it would upset their balance somehow, when things went so well for them most of the time.

Normally, the future wasn't something that Roger reflected on too much; it was far easier to force it down in his mind to be dealt with at some later time. Something Maureen had said earlier in the day had brought it surging to the surface of his thoughts, though, and now he couldn't let it go.

_"Mark! So? Weren't you supposed to hear from Brown today?" _

_Roger's ears pricked immediately, though he carefully continued studying the sandwich he was holding. They never talked about college. When he shot a glance at Mark, he could see that the other boy was deliberately not looking at Roger as he answered. _

_"Yeah…I got my letter in the mail this morning." Quietly, chasing his food about his plate with his fork as if his words were something to be ashamed of rather than proud, he finished, "I got accepted." _

_Seeming to not see the tension, Maureen leapt to her feet, throwing herself at Mark with a squeal and smothering him in an enthusiastic hug, while Roger reached down to grip the bench he was sitting on until his knuckles turned a bright white. _

"Why didn't you tell me you applied to Brown?"

From where he was sitting, cross-legged at the head of Roger's bed with a math book and several papers strewn around him, Mark started slightly and looked up, pushing his glasses up with two fingers at the bridge of his nose. His expression betrayed how startled he was. "You never asked," he replied.

Lying back so he could look straight up, Roger said nothing for awhile, just stared at the ceiling until he could hear Mark's pencil slowly begin scratching on his paper again; clearly Mark had decided that Roger was going to drop the subject. Instead, without looking at Mark, he said, "Were you even going to tell me?"

There was more silence, interrupted only by a shuffling as Mark presumably moved his things out of his lap. It irritated Roger; Mark was obviously preparing for a discussion where he would have to calm Roger down, even though he was acting like he didn't understand why Roger was upset. That was confirmed by his overly soothing tone as he answered, "Of course I was going to tell you."

"Oh yeah, when?" Roger couldn't bring himself to look at Mark yet, hoping that there would be some miraculously right answer.

"I hadn't really thought about it. I mean, I didn't have a time planned out. It's not a big deal."

Roger's hand went to his throat, and he entwined his fingers in his necklace. That hadn't been the response he had wanted, and it was a lie anyway. "So…are you going, then?" he asked in an overly-casual, emotionless voice.

When he chanced a look at Mark, he could see that Mark was determinedly trying to fight back annoyance that to Roger seemed completely unfounded. Mark was the one keeping secrets, not Roger. Mark was the one creating a life that might not have room for the both of them without even thinking to _mention _it to his lover.

"Look, Roger," Mark said, as if Roger was overreacting, making Roger feel decidedly patronized, "I don't know yet. I haven't made any decisions yet. I don't know what would be best for—what would work out the best, yet."

"I just thought it'd be nice to know if my boyfriend—if that's how you think of us—is going to be leaving. But I guess that was too much to ask."

"What? I'm not—look, just because we haven't talked about college yet—I don't know what _you're _doing after high school either. Do _you _know what you're doing?"

Roger was on his feet now. "What I'm _not _doing is college, and don't pretend, you already fucking knew that."

"Just because you're not going anywhere doesn't mean that I'm going to put everything I've worked towards on hold until you figure it out."

Glad that his mom wasn't home, because his detached composure had given way to almost shouting, and Mark was red in the face and talking heatedly as well, Roger spat back, "At least I'm making an effort for us. There are different ways to view success, and what's worth your time."

He'd been getting closer to Mark until he was right in front of him, and now Mark stood as well, forcing Roger to take a step backwards. Glowering, Mark said, "Why does it always have to be about you? And what did you mean before, about us being boyfriends, 'or however I think of us?'"

"Gee, I don't know Mark. How about the fact that I can hardly touch you in public without you checking to make sure no one's around? Or the fact that I've known you, been with you for _months_, and I've been inside your house for maybe a total of a half hour? I haven't even met your parents! My mom knows you, loves you, and she sure as hell knows about us. But you're too ashamed of me to let anyone know other than fucking Maureen know!"

Mark seemed to shrink before his eyes, deflating a little before the onslaught of Roger's pent up fury. "Don't bring Maureen into it," he defended, and Roger rolled his eyes. Mark might be his, but Maureen would always have her talons sunk in.

Continuing, Mark said, "And…is that what you think? That I'm _ashamed _of you? I'm not—never. I'm just _scared._ There's a reason I don't introduce you to my parents—they're elitist, conformist Fundamentalists. They would make life a living hell.

"And Roger…if you want to be with me…come with me. Come to Brown with me. I have to be in the dorms the first year, but we could both work and pool money for rent so that you could live in Providence. I'd move in with you the next year. And we'd be out of this tiny, conservative hole, and you could figure out what you wanted to do, and we'd…we'd be together."

As he wound down, his hands were held out in supplication, and some of Roger's anger and hurt had begun to abate. Despite that, his breathing hadn't calmed, and he bit one lip and looked to the side, not saying anything.

Mark's feet scraped a little on the carpet as he took a chance and stepped forward, touching Roger's shoulder with one hand, and then cupping his cheek with the other. Flinching, Roger pushed away the gentle hands and half-turned, gripping the back of his desk chair. Inwardly he willed Mark to make another overture, to step forward and pull Roger back towards him again, even though he knew Mark wasn't going to.

Finally he was able to face Mark again, heaving a sigh. "You want me to come with you? To Providence?"

Mark's voice was so quiet that Roger had to strain to hear it. Apparently all the energy expended in the yelling match had left him as well. "I just thought that maybe you'd want to come, so we could stay together."

Roger knew what Mark wanted to hear, wanted him to say, and so he finally nodded. "Of course I want to stay with you. God, Mark, don't think I don't…"

In a moment he'd pulled Mark into his arms, backing them up so that they crumpled onto the bed and lay there tangled up in each other. He couldn't quite bring himself to say what he actually meant, that he thought that as much as Mark needed him, he might need Mark more, so he tried to show Mark instead, pressing soft kisses around his face.

A picture was forming in his mind, of his own little apartment where he could write songs and sing them to Mark, who was sprawled across his bed in the mental photograph, head bent over his homework and occasionally looking up to smile at Roger. Roger knew, vaguely, that he was over at the apartment most of the time after classes, and that the only reason he wasn't living there yet was because his parents had insisted that he stay in the dorms for the first year.

Roger would get a job working…oh, somewhere, he'd find somewhere until he could get a band together—a band that was better and going further than Incendiary was. He'd play at clubs, and then go home to Mark in their little apartment, where he wouldn't need anything else. Just his music and his Mark.

The ideas were comforting, and Roger immersed himself in them as he held the Mark of reality, a solid weight in his arms. That was easier, concentrating on that idea of a perfect future. He carefully edited out Mark's parents and their influence on him, edited out the work involved in finding a job and a band for someone as young as he was in a place like Providence, Rhode Island.

"Roger?"

"Yeah?"

"It'll be perfect. We'll be perfect."

Rather than answering, because Mark sounded so optimistic and Roger couldn't bring himself to ruin that, he swung a leg over Mark to straddle him, letting Mark believe that the world fit the ideal that he wanted it to.

They had months to figure it out, and after all, what else could they possibly need?

OOC: I'm interested to see what you all think of this. It was nice--albeit emotional--to write part that wasn't all happy-fluffy like the next chapter. From now on there won't be much happy-fluffy for awhile, probably. At least, not without dark undertones as well. I'm glad of it.


	11. The Heart May Freeze

Disclaimer: It's all Jonathon Larson's. No one could hope to measure up anyway.

**Mark**

Pictures were strewn haphazardly across the floor as Mark rifled through them, looking for the one that he knew was somewhere in the mess. It was one that he definitely wanted to frame for college; he even had the frame chosen and standing empty and ready on his bedspread.

Deeply immersed in packing, Mark whistled to himself. After a few minutes it occurred to him that the song was one of Roger's, and he smiled, interchanging the softly whistled notes for a quiet rendition of the lyrics.

Earlier in the day he'd been at Roger's, helping the other boy pack the things he wanted to take to the hotel he was going to be staying in until he found a place of his own. His possessions didn't take up as much room as Mark's, and it didn't take long at all. Now he was in his own room, carefully labeling boxes and not thinking about how distracted Roger had seemed all day.

Well, that last part of a lie. He was trying not to think about it, fairly unsuccessfully. There wasn't any use anyway, because when he'd pressed Roger about it, Roger had dodged and evaded his questions.

Finally the picture that Mark had been searching so earnestly for appeared, and he picked it up, dusting it off carefully and holding it back to study.

The photo was from three months earlier, of him and Roger, and shot by Maureen just after graduation. In it, Mark wore his graduation cap and robes, though Roger's cap was falling off of his mussed hair, just about to drop to the ground. Roger was laughing, one hand reaching for his cap, and the other wrapped around Mark's shoulders, pulling him close. Mark had his head tilted towards Roger's shoulder and was grinning, a smile brighter than he was normally able to muster for a camera. Both boys were looking at one another, their faces only inches apart and filled with unadulterated joy.

It was one of the few pictures that Mark had with both of them in it, since normally he was the one behind the camera. As a result, he had a plethora of pictures of Roger, all of which he loved, but none of them had quite the feel that this one did.

Having successfully retrieved the picture, Mark set it in its frame, and was about to place the ensemble into one of his boxes, but couldn't quite bring himself to put it away yet. Instead he set it on the table beside his bed, resolving that he'd wrap it up tomorrow before he put the last box in the car.

Seeing it there, with them in their graduation robes, reminded Mark of how quickly the intervening time had slipped by. Already, he was about to head off to Brown, Roger was going to live in the city with him, and Maureen was leaving for Boston University, only an hour away. The summer had been fast—too fast, he thought, except that even next year he was going to have Roger right there with him, and Maureen close enough to visit whenever they wanted.

Mark was so deep in his thoughts that he missed the voices downstairs until he heard, "Mark, honey, you have a…friend…at the door," float up the stairs.

Immediately he sat bolt upright, running out of his room and nearly hurdling down the stairs to where his mother was standing, one hand on the doorframe, examining a rather uncomfortable-looking Roger. Both of them turned as they heard him pound into the hallway.

"Mark, dear, don't run in the house," his mother said reflexively, and behind her Roger gave a little wave.

Ignoring his mother, Mark stepped up to the door. "Hey, Rog, what're you doing here?" he asked in confusion. They, as well as Maureen, had had a small goodbye party just for the three of them earlier, and the boys weren't supposed to meet until the next morning, when Roger had been planning to stop by before he left for the three hour drive to Providence. Mark was going to call him at the hotel that evening so they could get together and celebrate their newfound freedom.

In the doorway, Roger looked decidedly unsettled in the darkening evening, with the porch light playing over his features as he said, "Could I come in for a little while? Um…you sounded like you might need help packing."

Mark turned to his mother, wondering what this was about. Obviously Roger wasn't here to pack. "Mom, this is Roger…you saw him a couple times over the summer when he was picking me up. Could he come upstairs and help me out?"

Mrs. Cohen checked her watch. "It's nearly nine o'clock. You can have him over for an hour, no more. You need your sleep before tomorrow."

With a nod at Roger, Mark ushered him in. To his credit, Roger offered a hand to shake Mrs. Cohen's. "It's nice to meet you."

She smiled and said, "Yes, you too, _finally._ My son is always out with you and that girl, but he never brings anyone over."

Behind her back, Mark rolled his eyes. She didn't like him having friends over, but in front of Roger, she made it sound like Mark's fault. Well, in part it was true that he didn't want his friends exposed to his family, but still, she was at the root of it.

Politely, Roger nodded, slipping off his shoes as Mark's mom excused herself. As soon as she was out of sight Mark grabbed Roger's hand and pulled him up the stairs and into his room. Closing the door safely behind them, he started to ask, "What are you doing here?"

The words had barely left his mouth when Roger had grabbed him, a hand on either side of his face, and shoved him up against his wall violently, kissing him fiercely for long moments until Mark couldn't breathe anymore. Finally Roger pulled away enough for Mark to gasp in a few breaths.

"I just needed you, right now, tonight. Before we leave for anywhere else, I needed you here, where we started out," Roger murmured gruffly, his mouth still so close to Mark's that Mark could feel their lips brush together. The dark tone and Roger's nearness sent shivers all through Mark as he replied, "Okay."

From the way that Roger was acting, he didn't think that he had much of a choice in the matter. As soon as he got his reply, Roger let his arms fall to Mark's sides, wrapping them together and kissing him deeply again so that Mark panted against his mouth. Roger licked and nipped at his lips, and then along his jaw line, breathing into Mark's ear and biting down on the junction of just-bare skin where his neck and shoulder met.

It was rougher than they usually engaged in, and with his mouth free, Mark queried, "Rog…what's going on? Are you okay?"

Roger growled slightly, capturing Mark's mouth again in lieu of answering, and despite himself, Mark found that the distraction was providing sufficient. Something in Roger's eyes told him that he really didn't want the answers anyway, not right now, so he didn't force the issue, just let Roger possess him.

He was already so hard that it was painful, and when Roger tore open his jeans and forced a hand into his boxers, Mark had to bite back a scream that would have brought his mother running up the stairs. Instead, he moaned throatily as Roger stripped both of them of clothes and then dropped to his knees. Usually it was Mark that sucked off Roger, but Roger was still undeniably good at it, letting Mark thrust until his green eyes watered, but not flinching.

Mark came more quickly than he had in months, and once he'd started with Roger, he found that he wasn't the only one who was desperately hard and easy to get off. Roger's climax was beautiful, with his back arched and fingers splayed in Mark's hair. Once they were done, they collapsed into a heap on Mark's bed, both of them breathing as if they'd been sprinting.

"God, Roger…"

They squirmed a bit, getting into a position where they could look at one another, foreheads pressed together. Roger bent and kissed the mark that he'd made biting Mark's shoulder, which was an angry red against the pale skin. He was so quiet that it was unnerving, and Mark looked at him curiously.

"Rog…are you okay?"

The words seemed to trigger something within Roger, because he sat up, running a hand through his hair, making it stand up every which way. "I'm fine," he replied, and started gathering up his clothes, hopping on one foot as he tugged on his jeans.

Once he was decent, he walked over to the door to Mark's room, placing one thin hand on the knob. Mark watched his fingers resting on it, the beautiful, long-fingered hands curving slightly with the metal, and then looked up in time to see Roger give him a smile that was beautiful and troubled.

"I'll see you in the morning, Mark. Sorry I wasn't more help with packing."

Still naked, Mark could only stare. "No…it's fine, Roger. This was…better. I'll see you tomorrow. I...you know I…yeah, I'll see you tomorrow," he finished lamely, worried, and not quite able to say what he meant.

-------------------------

In the morning, when Mark awoke, the sun was bright in the sky, and he grinned against his pillow, the previous night's events dulled in his mind so that they seemed less like something foreboding and more like a lover's tryst. And this morning….today was the day. Finally, he and Roger were going to start in on the rest of their _real_ lives together.

Dressing quickly, Mark glanced at the clock and then hurried down the stairs. He grabbed a bowl of cereal, which he took into the living room to eat so that he could watch out the window for Roger.

There wasn't much of a wait. Within fifteen minutes, the battered car was pulling up to the curb outside. Though it was sunny, the air was crisp, so on his way out the door Mark grabbed the jacket that had once been Roger's and pulled it on, crunching through leaves on his way down the driveway. By the time he got to the car, Roger had only just climbed out, and he stood leaning one elbow against it, studying Mark, who grinned.

After a moment, Mark's smile drooped, because Roger still looked so serious. "Hey," he said, finally, and Roger bit his bottom lip.

"Hey," he said at last.

"Are…you alright?" Mark asked, and suddenly his cereal felt like a lead weight in his stomach, even though he didn't know what it was that felt so off.

"I got a place to stay," Roger said, and his voice sounded broken, hushed.

Now Mark was really ready to panic, because he knew that he was missing something. There was something in Roger's demeanor that was terrifying, and so incredibly wrong, something that he was afraid had been there for some time now without Mark even seeing it. Something that he didn't think he would have recognized, or probably would have fought not to, even if he had been aware of it. Swallowing hard, he said weakly. "That's great. That's…Roger…what…?"

"It's in New York City. Lower East Side."

Mark was hearing things. He was sure of it, because there was absolutely no way that Roger had just announced that he was moving to New York City. Not after all of what they'd talked about, planned to do…they were both going to Providence to be _together,_ dammit, and Roger couldn't just go and change that. How had Mark missed something like that?"

Looking as if he was trying to hold back tears as much as Mark, Roger said plaintively, "Mark…I just couldn't do it. I couldn't pretend like that. I couldn't pretend that everything was going to be great, and things were going to work out so ideally when they obviously weren't. I'm not cut out for something like that….I have to actually try to do something with my life, you were right. I…one of the guys from the band knows someone, and we're moving in with him. We're going to try to start up a band there, a real one."

Mark couldn't move. He was sure that he was glued in place, and this couldn't be real. In a minute he was going to wake up and Roger was going to be there, Roger, who needed him and would never abandon him like this for…what?

"Say something, Mark. I'm so sorry. We can still see each other…I'll give you my address, and my phone number. It's only like three and a half hours for a trip, and—"

At last Mark found his voice. "You're moving to _New York City_? How long have you known this, Roger? How could you wait until _now _to tell me about it? The morning of?"

He laughed, and it was a sound bordering on hysteria. "You really got me this time, Rog. Good one. Get me thinking that you actually care enough…what is it? Am I too boring, predictable, nowadays? Being with me isn't enough of a statement? Moving and not going to college isn't rebellious enough? You aren't already causing enough havoc and hurt?"

All of Roger's muscles went taut. "Look, Mark, I'm just doing what I have to do. College is for you, and I'm not trying to stop you from doing that. But that's just not me. I have to find myself. I have to find…I would have told you before, but I thought it might be easier if you didn't know until now."

In his shocked state, Mark had shifted from being purely hurt to absolutely livid as well, and he spat, "Well, you thought wrong. At least I was willing to compromise for you instead of just throwing my life away. At least I _tried._"

Now it was Roger's turn to make the jump to anger. "Throwing my life away? Is that what I'm doing? Which of us is giving up the dream of what you actually want to do to go into fucking…business, or retail management, or whatever the hell it is that your parents want you to do? At least I'm not giving up who I am just to fit other peoples' expectations of me."

Part of Mark was saying that he should calm down, maybe break down in Roger's arms, tell him that he was going to miss him horribly, but it was okay and they would make it through until they were together again. The rest of him still wanted to lash out and hurt Roger as badly as he was hurting right now, and that was the part that was winning out.

"Obviously you don't try to think of what anyone but you might want. Just…go, Roger. Go to New York. Have a nice life. Maybe I'll see you around sometime."

There was a vein in Roger's forehead that was standing out slightly, and Mark couldn't decide if he looked more angry or distressed, because the two were pretty even right then. "Fine," he yelled back, wrenching open the car door again. Mark could see Roger's Fender case on the passenger seat, waiting to accompany him to wherever he was going, and wished that he were that guitar, because it was obviously what Roger needed, rather than him.

Roger was already getting into the car, and if Mark didn't know better, he would have thought that the musician's eyes were glossy. It had to be a trick of the light, though, because Roger never cried. Never. Suddenly, before he closed the door, and before Mark walked away, Roger said, "Wait. Here," and held out a small piece of notebook paper.

Mark considered not taking it, just walking away, because wasn't that what Roger was doing? Just driving away from his pleading? Finding that he couldn't quite bring himself to do that, he instead stepped forward and grabbed the little sheet of paper from Roger's grasp. Though he shoved it into his pocket as if he didn't care about it, Mark glimpsed an address and a phone number scrawled on it in Roger's familiar handwriting, and his chest clenched horribly.

"Just…maybe you could call sometime," Roger said, in the same broken voice that he'd given his announcement in, and then he and Mark just stared at each other. Mark was afraid that if he stood there any longer, he would either break down completely or start punching Roger, he instead he turned around and walked back towards the house. Behind him he could hear the car start up.

By the time he made it up to his room again, he was pouring tears, and after slamming the door to his bedroom, he grabbed the graduation photograph off of the nightstand. His fingers were shaking so hard that he almost couldn't unfasten the back.

Finally the frame dropped to the floor, saved from shattering by the soft carpet, and Mark was left holding the picture with both hands.

In one motion, he ripped it in half, the pieces fluttering to the floor facedown.


	12. Glory, Beyond the Cheap Colored Lights

Disclaimer: It's all Jonathon Larson's. No one could hope to measure up anyway.

**Roger**

"Roger! You almost ready?"

Sitting backstage of CBGBs on an overturned crate, Roger tuned his guitar without looking up, ignoring the voice.

"Roger, we gotta be onstage in about two minutes or this isn't going to be pretty."

Still, he kept his head bent, watching his pick vibrate against the strings without sparing a glance for Dane, who was standing nearby, tapping a stand with his drumsticks and sounding increasingly impatient.

CBGBs. A real, New York club. Even if it was a shitty hole-in-the-wall like all the others, it was a fucking _known_ shitty hole-in-the-wall. People ended up getting _discovered_ at CBGBs, and Roger was somehow, miraculously here. There was nothing outwardly glamorous about it, but it embodied everything that Roger had wanted from New York ever since he had started to think about coming here. Now, here he was, only seven months after moving to New York.

Living in New York was just about everything Roger had hoped for, and even though he'd been there for such a short time, he felt that his naivety had worn thin. It hadn't been long before he'd learned an awful lot that would have given his mother more premature gray hairs than she deserved.

His favourite thing about the city was the huge loft apartment that he'd moved into, which was above what was once a music publishing factory. It just seemed so poetically appropriate that he be there. At one point he had tried to explain it to one of his roommates—how it was just _right _to be in a place so saturated with the remnants of up-and-coming musicians, but Dane had just stared blankly at him and said, "Yeah, whatever man."

"Roger fucking Davis, are you even listening to me? One minute. We are not getting fucking kicked out of CBGBs just because you're…I don't even _know _what you're doing, but what you _should _be doing is getting the fuck onstage."

Finally Roger looked up at his roommate and drummer, who was glaring at him and sparing the occasional glances for his watch. Dane was the only guy who Roger had known from Scarsdale—he was the drummer of the former Incendiary, and Roger was glad that it was him that he'd formed up their new (much better) band with, because other than Roger himself, Dane had undoubtedly been the best member.

Besides, his older brother had already lived in the city, studying to be a mechanic, and he and the NYU graduate student that he was rooming with were happy to further split the rent of their apartment. With three bedrooms between the four of them, Roger, who was the last minute addition, ended up sleeping on the couch. It seemed like something a New York musician would do, so he didn't really mind.

From somewhere onstage, he could hear someone introducing them, and then a smattering of laughter at the words "The Well Hungarians" from those people that weren't already too drunk or wasted to catch the humour behind the name. Forestalling any further comment on Dane's part, Roger stood, rolling back his shoulders. "Calm down, dude, I'm ready," he reassured, patting a seething Dane as he walked past and towards the stage door.

As he strode onstage, a sea of faces looked up at him, and Roger felt the surge of confidence that he did anytime he performed, though mixed with a dash of trepidation that maybe they weren't good enough, and maybe they wouldn't ever get to play here again. Behind him he could hear Dane and the other two guys that made up The Well Hungarians giving last minute adjustments to their instruments, and settling themselves in. They were muttering in low voices, and he knew that the mixture of pleasure and fear had them all on edge as well.

It was a tiny stage, and didn't take Roger long to get to the microphone, which he picked up with a practiced hand and enough bravado to cover up the fluttering in his stomach. He growled a greeting to the crowd, and then with a deep breath, dove straight into the first song of their set.

By the time they were through their songs, it seemed like people had actually started to take notice (or else they were so high that it didn't matter). Still, it was a better reception than any of them had hoped for, and it left Roger with the heady feeling of confidence. On a whim, he blew the crowd a kiss, and they screamed louder at that than they had at perhaps any of his songs.

"When're you going to start taking advantage of that charm?"

Roger wiped sweat from his eyes, trying to avoid smearing his eyeliner as he looked up at Cory, his bassist. "What?"

Cory lounged against the wall, smirking, and for once Roger felt the age gap between them. Usually the fact that Zach and Cory were both in their early twenties while Roger and Dane, who had really formed the band, were still only nineteen didn't matter at all, but every once in awhile Roger wondered if they were just humouring him by letting him be their frontman.

He kept his face impassive, though, as he stood, leaning his guitar beside him. Laughing slightly, Cory reach out to tug at Roger's hair which, he thought silently, was starting to get a little bit too long. "You've got a crowd of girls that are dying to have you fuck them. Probably some guys too, if you're into that," he added snidely, shooting a glance over at Dane, who was bent over picking up a water bottle from the floor.

With a roll of his eyes, Roger shoved Cory. "Asshole. Fuck off."

Cory shrugged, and just kept smiling in a frustratingly knowing way. "To each his own." He started walking backwards across the small backstage area towards Zach, who was waiting, presumably so they could both go out and get themselves utterly smashed and laid by the very willing patrons still in the club.

Just before he reached the door, he called back, "Go out and get some pussy. Or cock. Or both. Just go get laid," to which Roger flipped him off.

Before he could escape into the cool spring air and start the trek back towards the loft, another voice stopped him—Dane's, this time. "Out of curiosity, Davis—what _is _stopping you from ever going out there? No strings attached and you'd cut down on how fucking long you take showering so that not all our funds contribute to you—"

He broke off, laughing, as Roger cuffed him behind the head. "I'm working more hours that you _anyway,_ bastard," he pointed out, "and I found us a job where they wouldn't ask about age and they'd still give you discounts on the merchandise. Also, I write the songs that are getting us _in _here."

Dane raised his hands in obvious surrender. "Point made, point made," the drummer laughed, edging his way out the door and back into the club.

This left Roger alone, looking down at his guitar, Cory and Dane's words ringing in his head. What _was _stopping him? He _was _lonely and bored, and it wasn't as if he had anything or anyone to be holding off for. Resolutely, he pushed the thoughts that were trying to crowd at his mind away (seven months without a phone call was enough of a signal, and he'd have to be blind to not know what it meant), and walked out into the dingy club interior.

"Order me a drink, you fuck," Roger hissed, slipping onto a barstool next to Cory, who was throwing back a shot easily. Cory grinned, and then laughed outright, holding out a hand into which Roger shoved some money, and then caught the attention of the bartender.

Once Roger had his long fingers curled around a drink, he could feel his confidence rising, and he chanced a long look around, seeking, hunting without being sure what he was looking for. The crush of bodies crammed into the room made it almost difficult to distinguish one person from another, until a pair of thin hands were suddenly on his shoulder from behind and he started so badly that he nearly toppled out of his seat.

Trying to regain his composure he turned, finding himself face-to-face with bright blue eyes and stick-straight blond hair. "Hey," the girl breathed, invading his space, stifling him, "I'm Amy. You were the lead for the last band, right?"

This was exactly the kind of girl that Roger had hated back in high school, who was looking for nothing more than an easy fuck, using the way that she stood, chest barely held into her shirt and touching against his shoulder to try to lure him in. He almost pushed her away in disgust, but then Dane's words rose up in his mind again: _No strings attached, _and rather than brush her off, he leaned back into her a little and gave her a predatory smile.

If she looked just like a female version of Mark, Roger pointedly didn't think about it.

"I'm Roger," he replied, and let her walk around until she was in front of him, slipping forward to straddle him and say, "You were really fucking good onstage."

He winked and wrapped his hands around her thin waist, forcing himself to stay in the here-and-now, murmuring, "I'm better offstage," and leaning in to kiss her. She tasted like pot and lip gloss, _wrong wrong wrong,_ but he ignored how nothing about her felt right and made himself keep kissing her, holding her tightly against him as she squirmed in his lap, and it was almost enough to convince him that this was what he wanted.

Two hours later, Roger found himself trudging back to the loft alone, considerably more relaxed than before, and wondering why exactly he'd put that off for so long. The answer was a nagging idea that he would rather ignore, but couldn't quite manage to. _But he was the one that gave up on me, not the other way around. He was the one who decided it was over,_ Roger told himself, and then, out loud, "He gave up on me. He ended it."

When he pushed the door open it was quiet inside, and he was pretty sure that Dane wasn't back yet. There was a light on, though, and he could make out a shape curled up on the couch near the lamp. Drawing a little closer, he could see that it was Collins, the NYU grad student, with books and papers strewn out around him.

At the sound of Roger's footsteps Collins looked up and waved with a friendly grin. Then again, he almost always looked friendly, except when he was talking philosophy. At those times he was just serious, and maybe a little sad.

Roger wandered over to the couch and took a seat, where Collins was looking at him speculatively. "Let me know if you need me to move so you can sleep," the bigger man told Roger softly, but Roger shook his head.

Collins was by far his favourite of his roommates, and honestly, Roger had a little bit of a hero-worship complex when it came to Collins. Collins was the one who had taken some time to show Roger around the city, let Roger talk about pretty much anything without actually prying or asking the wrong questions, and had a way of producing alcohol out of thin air. He was also apparently a computer programming genius, and always knew what to say.

"Studying for a midterm?" Roger asked, voice scratchy from singing for most of the night, and whispering to Amy for the rest of it.

Nodding, Collins responded, "I think I'm about done for the night, though. You're in awfully late for…you."

His voice was pitched with understanding, and Roger looked up, thinking about back door fucks and short skirts and _girls,_ damn it. "Yeah, well…"

"You don't have to make excuses," Collins replied, and for a second, Roger thought wildly that he somehow knew about Mark, knew about everything that had gone on in Roger's life before he made it to New York. Then he realized that Collins may have been a genius, and may have had an intuition for feelings, he didn't actually know _everything,_ and he was just saying that Roger didn't need to make excuses for needing someone.

Face twisting into a smile, Roger shot back, "Why would I have to?"

Collins chuckled, reaching into his pocket and producing a joint and a lighter. Roger's eyes followed the large hands as he lit it and brought it to his lips, taking a long drag and leaning back, looking more comfortable than the lumpy couch should have allowed. "You want some?" he asked, offering the joint to Roger.

That caught Roger off guard. Collins hadn't ever suggested that Roger get high with him before, presumably to protect him. For just a moment Roger considering resisting, saying no, that wasn't his thing, before deciding that it not being "his thing" was only true in a different world, one that had been deconstructed and left behind seven months ago. Instead he nodded, holding out a hand.

Before he handed it over, Collins warned, "Be careful. It's not going to be as easy as it looks the first time." Roger almost flipped him off, except that he could tell Collins was actually trying to help him out, not ridicule him, so he refrained and just accepted the joint.

Despite his inner preparation, when Roger tried to breathe in he overdid himself, the acrid smoke burning at his throat and causing his eyes to water. "You alright?" he heard Collins ask, concerned, and Roger coughed a little, nodding.

"Yeah, just….let me try that again," he finally managed, forcing a smile and raising the joint back to his lips, this time only letting a little into his mouth and holding it there for a moment, taking in the lightness, the feeling of the edge of a high creeping over him before he exhaled calmly. It was better this time, and he leaned back against the arm of the couch opposite Collins', Collins laughing and taking the joint back.

"It's not all for you. Even if we are celebrating your first CBGBs gig and everything it means for your career."

Now Roger understood the offer, and that it was actually Collins still watching over Roger. Roger thought about how readily he had accepted the joint, and thought that maybe Collins was just making sure that the first time Roger did this it was here, in the loft, with someone assuring he was okay, because he had crossed a threshold without warning.

Or maybe Roger was just imagining it.

Either way, as he reclined, stretching his fingers out for the joint again, he thought that he was glad that he was finally moving on.

------------------------------

Three weeks later, he was even more glad. The Well Hungarians weren't playing CBGBs this time, though they had gotten a call asking them to come back and play there again in the future, and there was even a night lined up. Things were falling into place perfectly.

That Saturday, however, they were playing a little venue only a couple blocks from his and Dane's apartment. There weren't a whole lot of people there, and they'd only taken the spot because a little extra cash was always nice, and they didn't have anything else lined up. There wasn't nearly as much of a crowd as Roger liked, but there were a fair number of girls right at the foot of the stage, and they were all enthusiastically screaming.

In the last few weeks, he'd gotten good at the one-night encounters. He never took anyone home, but what harm was there if the girl was willing, and he was safe about it? As he bid the crowd before him goodnight and slipped off the stage, his eyes were already roving among the people before him.

Almost as soon as he'd gotten into the club, a drink appeared before him, the bartender grunting and gesturing a few seats over when Roger raised an eyebrow in question. There, leaning against the wall cockily, was a young man with three earrings in his right ear and spiky black hair. Once he was sure that Roger had noticed him he stood and wandered over. "You always gape like that?" he asked, sliding onto the barstool next to Roger.

"I'm…" Roger stopped, looking at him for a moment, because maybe…but then he was shaking his head. "I'm sorry, but I'm not…I'm not into guys," he finished, standing up quickly and hurrying into a backwards retreat.

Almost immediately he ran into someone, and felt a slight splash across his back.

"Shit," he heard as he turned, and found himself face to face with a girl nearly a head shorter than him, who was holding a now-empty glass and sporting a wet stain down her left side.

"Oh, fuck, I'm sorry," he told her, looking around for napkins that weren't anywhere in sight. "I'll buy you a new…whatever. Or…"

Roger's voice trailed off when the girl looked up at him, because she didn't look angry as he had expected, but she was _laughing._ "Okay," she told him, resting her free hand lightly on his upper arm, "You can buy me a drink, as long as you stay to drink it with me."

Her smile was bright and wide, almost too wide for her face, and her hair was cut choppily around a pixyish jawline, a dark strawberry blond that he didn't think was dyed that colour. The girl had amber eyes that sparkled brightly when she smiled, and no, he definitely didn't have a problem with sharing a drink with her. "I'm April," she told him as he collected his thoughts and led her towards a table, where he left her briefly to go and pick up fresh drinks for them both (the bartender could have cared less about ID in a dive like this).

When he returned, April was leaning her elbows on the table, which was so small that their knees knocked together underneath. Not that Roger minded, even when April laughed and kicked him gently with a toe covered by a leather boot. "So, what's your name?" she asked, and he could have swallowed his tongue for forgetting to tell her, because he really didn't want to give this gorgeous girl any reason to stand up and walk away.

Taking a chance, though, because from how she was looking at him he was pretty sure she wasn't going to anyway, he teased, "Weren't you listening when we announced it onstage?"

April smiled and leaned a little closer. "I was distracted," she replied, eyes dancing, and Roger can't help but smile back at her.

"Good," he breathed, and then leaned in to nip lightly at her mouth until she laughed and pulled away.

"Slow down, gorgeous," she murmured, "We've got all the time in the world."

Roger thought that slowing down for April was something he would be completely willing to do.


	13. Hating Convention, Hating Pretension

Disclaimer: It's all Jonathon Larson's. No one could hope to measure up anyway.

**Mark**

"May 14th, 11:32 AM. Maureen is making her monthly visit, and as per usual, she's brought enough clothes and accessories to practically move in."

"Shut up, Marky. I have to look good for the sake of Providence," Maureen replied, smirking, and shook her hair forward over her shoulders.

Mark brought down his camera, rolling his eyes. "Yeah, for all of the weekend," he remarked, but he was smiling.

"Oh, shut up and take me out to breakfast."

In acquiescence, Mark grabbed a sweatshirt and dragged it over his head, opening the door to the dorm for Maureen and ushering her out. She flounced ahead of him, and he smiled faintly at her back as they left the building and started picking their way slowly across campus.

As it turned out, Mark found Brown to be the most tolerable on the weekends that Maureen was visiting. At first, he'd tried to convince himself that he didn't need or want any connections back to Scarsdale (unspokenly, _back to Roger_), but Maureen would never fail to be an exception to every rule that Mark set up for himself. After two months of doing his best to evade her relentless questions about visiting, Mark had arrived back from his Psych class one Friday in November to find Maureen curled quite contentedly on his bed, because she'd taken upon herself to come, and Mark's roommate Benny had let her in.

By the end of that weekend, Mark had completely forgotten why he'd ever wanted to keep his best friend out of his life.

"Mark, where _are _you?" Maureen demanded a few minutes later, after the third time Mark had lost the thread of idle conversation that they had running. To punctuate her question she waved striped gloves in front of his face. Deftly, with years of practice behind the action, Mark caught her wrists and drew her arms down to her sides.

Her question wasn't entirely unfounded. Despite it being a Saturday, Mark hadn't slept well the night before, and as a result, he'd woken up still tired. To remedy that, he'd borrowed Benny's coffee maker and downed the better part of a full pot before Maureen or Benny awoke. Rather than fueling him with energy, the hot liquid had instead left him feeling strung out and buzzing.

"I'm fine, Maureen," he told her nevertheless, keeping his attention on her left cheek, just shy of her eyes, as though that might keep her from calling him out on his semi-lie.

Unfortunately, Maureen wasn't as unobservant as people tended to expect. Self-absorbed, yes, but certainly not unintelligent or unaware of the world around her. In fact, as an actress, she _had _to be aware of her surroundings in order to provoke the reactions she wanted, and that carried over into her everyday life as well. As a result, she eyed Mark and replied, "Bull. Shit. What's up, Marky?"

They were well into campus now, with a sweeping green lawn to one side, stone benches lining it on the path on which they stood. With a shrug, Mark dropped onto a bench. Though it was already May, the weather hadn't warmed up yet, so the cool stone was chilly even through his jeans. Maureen seated herself carefully, arranging herself sideways on Mark's lap, arms resting loosely on his shoulders, eyeing him speculatively.

Under the intensity of her gaze, Mark's worn nerves vibrated, and he could feel himself giving in. Still, he muttered, "Sitting in my lap probably isn't the best way to get me to focus."

Despite herself, Maureen grinned. "It'll get you to focus on _me,_ I think," she shot back, and Mark inclined his head, admitting, "True, touché."

For a moment, he looked over Maureen's shoulder, past her to where a few people were passing their bench. He knew exactly what this looked like to the outside world—a boy and his girlfriend, sickly-sweet as they cocooned themselves into their own private universe.

Maureen's hands were warm through her gloves as she reached up to cup his face, and she said insistently, "Focus."

Drawing his eyes back to her, for a moment Mark let himself be caught up in the little shell built up around them. They were so close—no different from a thousand times before, but it had been awhile since Mark had been at all tempted to lean in until there was no space left at all.

Lest he do something foolish (_and that would be exceedingly stupid,_ he told himself firmly), Mark sighed. "It's just that…god, Maureen, I hate it here."

Once the words were out of his mouth without Mark ever having intended to be that honest, it was as if a floodgate had been lifted so that he became a conduit for all the emotions that had been piling up since last fall.

"I hate it. Everyone walks around like they're some kind of demigod because they're at an Ivy League school. The professors treat us as if we should be machines, no creativity wanted. It's all about beating everyone else, not…succeeding for yourself.

"My parents want me to go into some high-paying field, but I'm barely passing most of my classes because I _just don't care._ Do you know how long it's been since I last filmed anything worthwhile? I thought—I took a film studies class, and it wasn't anything other than a waste of time. There aren't any budding Spike Lees or Quentin Tarantinos in there—no one wants to try to show the world as it is. It's all fucking…Spielberg, or Zemicks…just idealistic or fantastic.

"My literature classes are just as bad. Emily Dickinson is alright, but it's never balanced with Maya Angelou. Edmund Spencer, but never Pablo Neruda. What about the raw, ugly things? Jack Kerouac and Chuck Palahniuk? Where are they? This…all of this…it's like some pretty costume, an illusion. It's not…I can't…"

Abruptly, Mark's words stopped pouring forth. Maureen was watching him with something akin to amazement as he wound down, and Mark squirmed under the weight of her gaze. Finally he mumbled, "Sorry, I didn't mean to…you know. I just…"

"No, Mark, I want you to tell me these things. You never tell me anything anymore," Maureen replied, smoothing a hand through his hair. Mark turned his head into the touch, closing his eyes.

"Does this have to do with Roger?"

The words were so quiet that Mark almost didn't catch them, but when he did his head snapped back up, away from Maureen's calm hands and voice.

"What?" he gasped, the word sounding strangled in the flash of anger, "_Roger?_ No, Maureen, it doesn't fucking have to do with…Roger. Why would you….what is that supposed to….I can't believe…."

_Why would you bring him up? What is that supposed to imply? I can't believe you. _

He tried to stand, but Maureen wouldn't move off of him, and he didn't quite have the heart to push her away, so instead he turned his head and glared off into the distance.

"Look, Mark, I'm sorry," and now she sounded pissed as well, "but it's just that ever since Roger left, you haven't been yourself. I know you guys had something…really had something great between you, but…it's over now. You have to let him go. He left you."

Mark bit the inside of his cheek, hard, until he could the coppery flavor of blood was on the edge of his tongue. Then, once he had a semblance of composure back, he practically whispered, "He told me that he didn't want me to settle for a life where I had to give up my dream."

"That's the one thing that I still agree with him about," Maureen replied, and she didn't sound angry anymore either. After a moment's pause, she added, "You have to do what's right for you, Mark."

They stayed out for most of the day, because even without telling her, Maureen seemed to realize that Mark didn't want to be confined within his residence hall, as much as he could help it. By the time that they finally did wander back, it was dark, and Benny was out, so Mark put on a movie.

As it played, Maureen situated herself against Mark, leaning against him easily, as if there was no doubt that she belonged there. He slid an arm around her waist, and she set her head on his shoulder, neither of them talking. As the end credits started to roll, Mark realized that he had just about drifted off, and blinked hard a few times to wake himself up more.

"I have to tell you something," Maureen was murmuring against his neck.

"What is it?"

"I'm transferring schools next year," she replied, and something about her voice made Mark's stomach clench. Before he could ask the obvious question she continued, "I'm going to NYU. I just got my acceptance, and I wanted to make sure that I got in before I told you, in case it didn't work out. I only found out Friday, just before coming. It's just that in Boston, I'm never going to get any real exposure. In New York…well, that's where actors and actresses actually get big breaks."

NYU. New York City. Mark's mind reeled, just like it had the previous autumn. Something about New York just drew everyone to it, and he was going to keep being left behind, every time. Swallowing hard, he flatly said, "I'm glad you got accepted."

"Don't sound like that, Mark," she responded, and after knowing her for as long as he had, Mark could tell that she was unhappy, even though he couldn't see her face in the dark from the angle that they were sitting at. "I almost didn't even apply, because I'd be further away from you."

That caught him by surprise. He knew that Maureen considered him her best friend, but he hadn't realized that he affected her choices that much, no matter how many times she told him that he absolutely did. The silence was heavy between them, but it was more uncertain than tense.

Finally, whispering, he said, "I'm coming with you."

Her voice was sharp as she queried, "What? But Mark…"

"No, listen. I hate it here. I'm…I think if I stay here I'm going to go crazy. I'll drop out of school. I'm going to go to New York with you. You're going to need a director for some of your work…right?"

"Yeah…of course I would….I'd love for you to be there, but…Mark, think about what you're saying. You'd drop out of school?"

Mark could hear the concern thickly laced through her voice, but nevertheless, he was already nodding against the top of her head. "My parents are going to hate me."

Under him, Maureen laughed lightly, agreeing, "Yeah." Mark had expected her to protest more, to tell him that he was being a complete idiot, and he needed to stay in school, and she'd still visit him all the time, but that there was no way that he was coming to New York City with her. The fact that she was agreeing with him felt too easy. He supposed it was the only thing that was going to be simple about it.

Vaguely, he wondered what his roommate was going to say. Benny was a man with direction. He had come in with enough credits, and was taking enough units every term so that he'd definitely be graduating early, and he was completely set on going into business management. Despite that, he and Mark were friends, though Mark could clearly picture the look that Benny would get when Mark informed him of what he was going to be doing next year.

His parents would throw a fit. His mother would cry and tell him that he had _so much potential,_ and his father would inform him that he was _throwing his life away_, because he was their baby, and they wanted him to be perfect.

Before he even realized what he was thinking, he continued with how Roger would be the only one who was actually proud of him, because he was doing what he wanted instead of what everyone else wanted for him. Abruptly, he realized that Roger wasn't going to feel anything about it, because there was no way that he would even know. Maureen was right. Roger was gone.

As the thoughts rolled through his mind, Maureen's searching hand found his and squeezed it lightly. "Hey, Marky?" she said into his ear.

"Hmm?"

"I'm gonna get my pillow and go to bed now," she told him, starting to shift away from him and towards the couch that she normally slept on during her weekend visits.

Before he had time to process what he was doing, Mark had tightened his grip on her hand. At the extra pressure, she stilled and turned slowly back towards him, her brown curls and eyes blacker, and her pale skin even whiter in the darkness of the room. He could see the question written all over her face, in the set of her mouth and the tilt of her head, and he took a deep breath.

Heart in his throat, Mark managed to croak out, "Maybe you could….stay here, with me, tonight."

In the pause that ensued, he was pretty sure that he had messed everything up. Mark wasn't exactly suave, whereas Maureen had enough charisma that she either charmed people immediately, or else drove them away in a hurry. There was no in between with her, whereas he was a massive grey area.

Swallowing hard, he was about to just laugh it off and deny like hell that he had meant anything by his words when suddenly Maureen had twisted in his grip so that their fronts were pressed together, and their legs tangled up. "I don't want to be your second choice," she told him firmly, so close that their noses brushed together.

They looked at one another, Mark still completely in shock, and then he whispered, "Never, Mo."

As she leaned in, a satisfied smile playing over her mouth, he wondered if it was her or himself that he was lying to. Then, when she had pressed her lips to his and nudged her tongue in between them, he decided that it really didn't matter as long as she didn't ever stop what she was doing.


End file.
